A Northern Tale

BY : WolverMean
Category: X-men Comics > AU - Alternate Universe
Dragon prints: 1265
Disclaimer: X-Men and its characters belong to Marvel and I make no money from this publication. This is for fun only. The rest are my own creations. Trigger warnings for dubious consent, violence, blood and gore. Any and all mistakes are my own.

I’m ahead, I’m the man
I’m the first mammal to wear pants, yeah.
I’m at peace with my lust
I can kill ‘cause in god I trust, yeah.
It’s evolution, baby.
- Do the Evolution, Pearl Jam



Victor Creed loved war.

The blood, the heat, the screams, the dust, the tear of claws through flesh, teeth through muscle…fuck, there was nothing about it that he didn’t love.

The one thing he hated about war – if he had to choose one thing – was fighting alone. Victor liked to have a partner, someone with whom he could share the spoils of war with, someone who was as bloody and sick and twisted as he was. It made him feel less lonely.

Victor thought he had a permanent partner in James Howlett; their friendship –if you could call it that – was long and complicated. But the little runt was as bloody and sick and twisted as he was and Victor couldn’t have been happier to have Jimmy by his side, cutting and shooting and killing.

Then Jimmy changed his mind.


He no longer wanted to tramp his way through Europe, slicing and dicing every enemy the pair came across. Jimmy said those things no longer made him happy, no longer appealed to the beast within.Victor could smell his lie as easily as he felt Jimmy’s betrayal the morning he woke up to find the runt gone, his small rucksack of supplies missing.

Victor could have raised the alarm, called Jimmy a traitor and deserter, had him hunted down like a mangy dog, but he didn’t. He alone wanted the privilege of the hunt, he alone wanted to track down the runt, show him that they were bound together forever and running wouldn’t make a fucking bit of difference.

He kindly gave Jimmy a few days head start – for old times’ sake – before setting out after him.

Victor Creed loved the chase.



Northern Alberta, Canada - 1917

The hot, stale air of Madame Olive’s bordello oozed into Victor’s nose, bringing with it the sweet scents of sweat, sex, alcohol, perfume, and desperation. The last smell brought a wide smile to his ruggedly handsome face, a glimpse of wickedly sharp canines visible behind those lips.

Desperation made people do stupid things and wicked things in its name, and if there was a person Victor was looking for, it was someone stupid and wicked.

“Mister Creed,” lilted a cultured female voice. “It’s wonderful to see you again. I didn’t expect to see you so soon, especially with a war going on.”

Victor took his grin down a notch, making sure his lips were firmly over his canines before turning towards the lady who had spoken. Madame Olive Johnson had her hand lifted, waiting to receive him. Her long, graceful fingers were cold as Victor closed his own around them before bringing them to his lips for a chaste kiss.

Madame O - as she was more commonly referred to - was a tall, broad-shouldered woman with a hawkish nose and an extremely weak chin that faded into her neck. She was mostly all leg, with a squat torso and short arms. Despite her awkward appearance, there was a certain charm about her and shrewdness in her steel grey eyes that Victor liked.

Madame was a rare breed of woman – she came from wealth and was highly educated. Due to that fact – and because she was more handsome than pretty – she had never married, much to the chagrin of her father. When he died, he passed along his fortune to his son, Olive’s younger brother Oscar, who went through a majority of it before Mr. Johnson was cold in the grave.

Not one to rest on her laurels, Olive did the one thing she knew would make her rich – she moved from central Alberta to the northern part of the province and opened a bordello.

She was laughed at, of course. Who in their right mind would move to a place that was known only for its trapping and hunting, where woolly bears of men roamed the land skinning and gutting and selling whatever they caught. The fur trade was still active in the area, though not as prosperous as it had once been. The area became more of a place where men came in order to go further north, into Fort Chipewyan or the arctic. But there was always a man who craved female – or male – company. Madame did not judge. Money was money.

It wasn’t a bordello for girls who were dainty and fragile – this house needed a tougher breed, a hearty, healthy girl who could not only stand the cold climate, but could survive the brutality of the wilderness, as well as the winter. There was an excellent mix to choose from – local Cree girls, English and Québécois girls, girls who had been abandoned or widowed and found themselves trapped, girls hoping to make a quick buck and head south with the next man who would take them.

That wasn’t to say that Madame Olive didn’t take care of her girls and boys; they were well looked after and well compensated. There was a nurse on-site and a doctor only a half-hour’s walk away. She kept a few bouncers on hand to handle to rougher clientele. No one messed with Madame’s girls. Or boys.

Men from all over the country ventured to the small town in order to drink and whore before moving on. The discovery of oil also helped fill the bordello; oilmen loved to frequent Olive’s for a good time, and if one didn’t want to partake of the whores, she operated a hotel next door that served great food.

This day, Madame O had her greying blonde in a bun with no adornments. The dress she wore was simple: navy blue, belted at her wide waist with a small V neckline. Its long sleeves and calf length hid the scars that pitted her arms and legs. A cameo was pinned on her collar and her brown boots were polished to a sheen that would have impressed an army sergeant.

“A man can only do so much fightin’ before he needs a change o’ scenery,” Victor said, releasing Madame O’s hand.

“Last I heard, you were fighting in France,” Madame O said, her wide-set grey eyes fixed on Victor, her almost too-wide mouth set in a smile. She wore little make-up, as did most of the girls here. It was an unnecessary expense most women couldn’t afford during wartime. Besides, being so far north made it almost impossible for such items to be brought here.

“Jimmy’s been through?” Victor asked. He’d spent months tracking the runt through France, England and over the ocean to Canada. Count on Jimmy to run the fuck home when he was feeling out of sorts.

Madame O didn’t respond but her smile spoke volumes. “Will you be wanting any of your regulars, Mr. Creed?”

Victor truly hadn’t come to Madame’s for the purpose of whoring – Jimmy was his main focus – but it had been a long trip north and he felt he could spend a few days between the legs of some girl.

He flicked his amber gaze around the common area, quickly taking in the available men and women. He saw a few that he liked – some of the precious few who could take Victor’s more…primal tendencies – but none of them appealed. He’d been feeling restless lately and that was beginning to feed into his beast, which wanted something special, something animal – another feral.

The only other feral he knew was Jimmy and Victor had spent months following his scent, dreaming about him, wanting him, needing him, stalking him. He huffed a laugh out through his nose.

“Dunno, Madame O,” Victor drawled. “I’m cravin’ somethin’ different tonight.”

She bowed her head slightly. “I will let you browse.”

Victor took a few steps towards the common area, considering whether or not he should go in, when someone caught his eye. He turned towards the small bar, intrigued.

“Who’s that?” Victor indicated his head towards a boy, no older than 16, who was leaning against the bar, elbows on the ledge, heel of one foot propped up on the brass railing.

The kid was dressed a pair of baggy trousers held up by suspenders which were hidden under a ratty brown vest, black boots that had been patched and re-patched, a loose-fitting once white shirt was a dingy shade of grey and a tatty brown overcoat. A grey newsboy cap sat atop his head, brim pulled low. A cigarette burned in his left hand.

“Evan,” replied Madame O. “New bouncer. He’s young, but he’s strong and a great scrapper. Our smart customers are wary of him; the staff adore him.”

Victor watched the boy take a drag from the hand rolled cigarette. It was almost sensual how the kid pulled on the smoke. He licked his lips, fascinated. “Know his story?”

Madame O shook her head with a smile. “No and he’s not for sale, I’m afraid.”

Victor raked his eyes down the boy’s body, taking in the short but strong looking legs and the curve of his neck. “Pity.”

“Indeed,” Madame O squeezed Victor’s arm gently. “I am sure, however, that you will find solace with what I do have available.”

Victor graced her with a sharp smile. “Perhaps.”

Madame O squeezed his arm again and faded off into the crowd with a tiny wave. Victor watched her go and then set off towards the small bar, with its black stools and red painted backdrop accented with mirrors and faux silver décor. It was stocked with liquor smuggled back from overseas and whatever hooch was being brewed in the backwoods.

The bartender, a slight, feminine looking man with impeccably groomed brown hair, took interest when Victor stepped up, his eyes blatantly travelling over the large man’s frame. “What can I get you, Mr. Creed?”

“Whatever’s local,” he replied, leaning his forearms on the bar.
“Don’t,” said the boy, smoke curling up around his face as he spoke.

“Evan –“ the bartender warned.

“It’s basically gasoline mash,” the boy continued, turning his face towards the larger man. “Told Madame O she was a fool t’ buy it, but she’s got a soft heart. It’s been hard gettin’ th’ good stuff since the war started. Get the rye. It ain’t great but it’s the best we got.”

Victor studied Evan’s face; oval, with a sharp chin, light green eyes, pert nose with a dusting of freckles across the nose and cheeks. The lips were a perfect Cupid’s bow shape, the bottom one slightly plumper than the top. His rust coloured hair was long enough to brush the nape of his neck.

“Gimme rye instead,” Victor said and then turned to the boy. “Thanks, kid.”

“Name’s Evan,” the boy said. “I’ll pay for that one, Marty.”

The bartender set the glass in front of Victor. “Sure thing, Evan. Anything else, Mr. Creed?”

“You got any o’ them cigars I like? Jimmy might’ve brought a box when he was in last.”

“You’re in luck, Mr. Creed,” Marty said as he turned towards the shelf almost bare of liquor. “Mr. Howlett brought a whole box an’ barely touched them.” He pulled open a drawer and took out a plain wooden box. He set it in front of Victor, who flipped the lid back and removed a large, thick cigar.

It still smelled like he remembered – warm evenings in the Dominican with Jimmy before the war pulled them to Europe, the sand between their toes and the ocean spread out before them. Cold beers in the afternoons and hot women at night.

“Here kid,” Victor tossed the one he’d been holding to Evan, who caught it deftly. “For the liquor. It’s Dominican.”

“Thanks, sir!” The kid’s voice was genuine as he lifted the cigar to his nose. Evan was suitably impressed and Victor grabbed another. “Wow, that’s gotta be the nicest tobacco I ever smelled.”

“Name’s Victor Creed,” he said, watching as the kid tucked the cigar inside his coat for safekeeping. Even the way Evan performed that simple movement lit a fire inside of Victor. “You ain’t been around, kid?”

Evan shrugged, with a grin. “Not to the Dominican, anyway. Born and raised ‘round here. Workin’ on gettin’ around, though.”

Victor laughed. “With a war on, kid, you could get just about anywhere.”

Again, the kid shrugged, a graceful ripple of muscles that made Creed’s mouth water with want. “Guess so,” he replied, his green eyes guarded.

Victor turned his back to the bar, his eyes wandering over the whores sitting in the lounge. Some were already flirting coquettishly with possible patrons; others were fanning themselves or chatting softly with each other. In the corner, a Victrola spun a record, its volume low, tinny music wheezing softly from its speaker.

Slowly, subtly, Victor flared his nostrils, trying to scent Evan. He picked up floral perfume, rank and acrid sweat, sex and he was able to pinpoint exactly which person those smells came from, but the one person he couldn’t scent was the kid. He’d been trying to pick up something – anything - from Evan for the past five minutes and was getting nowhere.

Evan had absolutely no smell and that struck Victor as odd. Everyone had their own distinct odour; Jimmy of cedar and warm leather. Madame O like lilies. Marty smelled like blueberries. These were scents that were unique to the person and were a constant undercurrent, existing under other smells picked up throughout the day.

Victor’s beast was prowling around inside, thrown off by this fact. The beast didn’t like that someone could arouse it so but possess no scent; there was no way to know if it was prey or predator. He pushed down a laugh; there was no fucking way that kid was a predator. Victor was a predator, top of the food chain; everyone else was beneath him.

The beast wasn’t so sure. Not being able to scent something made it unknown, dangerous. This didn’t sit well with it and it didn’t like feeling this way. In order to distract himself, Victor downed the shot of rye and managed not to grimace at the taste. The kid was right – it wasn’t great.

Out of the corner of his eye, Victor saw Evan pinch off the end of his cigarette, making sure it was out before stuffing it into the pocket of his jacket. He tipped his cap to Victor and strode off towards the door where he slid onto a stool.

Even the way Evan walked, the sway of hips, the graceful movement of his shoulders made Victor hard and appealed to the beast’s primal urges. He wanted to grab Evan, throw him to the floor, and take him in front of everyone. Victor wasn’t sure why he was being affected so strongly, especially since the kid had no scent, but his body was reacting as if Evan was catnip.

Victor let out a breath. It was time to do some serious fucking, get the kid off his mind. He was about to scatter a few pennies on the bar as a generous tip for Marty when he was caught by how long the bartender’s fingers were as he cleaned a glass.

“Hey, Marty,” Victor said. The bartender looked up at him with a smile. “You got someone to cover? Got an itch that needs scratchin’.”

Marty slowly put down the glass. “Let me speak with Madame O but I’d say your chances of havin’ that itch scratched are pretty high, Mr. Creed.” He left to find the Madame and Victor leaned back against the bar, watching him go.

Victor hadn’t come in looking for male company but the kid got him all worked up and the small, passive, feminine-looking Marty felt like a good substitute since he couldn’t get what he really wanted.

It only took a few minutes before Marty was back. He tilted his head and flashed the numbers 10 and five, which meant to meet in room 10 in five minutes. Victor nodded and watched Marty ascend the stairs to the second level.

As he waited the appropriate amount of time, he found his gaze wandering back to Evan, still perched on stool. The kid was spooning soup from a bowl into his mouth while a pretty, young redhead stood next to him, talking animatedly while her eyes worshipped him adamantly.

When he was done the soup, Evan wiped his mouth on the sleeve on his jacket and handed the bowl back to the girl, their hands touching briefly. He gave her a charming smile and pecked her on the cheek. She ran away, giggling.

Victor felt a pang of jealousy over the kiss, as chaste as it was. He then shook himself; jealousy was an emotion he hadn’t felt in a long time, not since Jimmy had –

Fuck that. If the kid was still in his blood in a few days, Victor would just take him, consequences be damned. It wasn’t as if Madame O’s was the only bordello in Alberta; Creed was used to burning bridges in order to get what he wanted.

Soon, Victor found himself passing Evan to get to the stairs.

“Have a nice night, Mr. Creed.” Evan said.

Victor turned his predatory smile on him. “You bet I will, kid,” he said, tonguing his sharp canines. “You bet I will.”



The next morning found Victor’s appetite sated – well, one of his appetites, at least.

He was sitting at a table next door in the hotel, waiting on breakfast to arrive. The pretty redhead who had received Evan’s kiss last night was serving him and a few others, looking at ease with the jobs she was tasked. She also had the eye of quite a few men as she brought food, removed dirty dishes, and poured juice and coffee.

The girl was comely, on her way to being beautiful without even knowing it. Her body moved like a nervous filly, as if she wasn’t quite used to the woman she’d suddenly become. When she was still, she constantly smoothed her hands over her hips as if she were trying to flatten the fabric of her dress.

Her long red hair was pulled back into a braid that hung to her waist, her eyes as blue as a robin’s egg. Her skin was peachy and smooth, her lips plump and pink. She had a bit of blush in her cheek and a charming Irish accent.

If the girl were still a virgin, she’d fetch a very high price for Madame O. Apparently, Victor wasn’t the only one with that thought; he heard the crash of dishes and gruff laughter.

“Where you goin’, sweetheart? I ain’t done lookin’ at you yet.”

“Let me go!”

Victor looked up from a cheap paperback he’d found in the sitting room to see one of the bigger trappers grasping the girl’s arm tightly. The man was big, broad shouldered and barrel chested with lank, stringy brown hair that was starting to recede back from his temples. He had a busy brown moustache that reminded Victor of a walrus. In fact, the man was quite close to being a walrus himself; loud, barking, and obnoxious with his nut brown skin and bristly whiskers. The girl was still. She was smart in the sense that she wasn’t trying to struggle her way out of the large man’s grip; she knew putting up a fight wouldn’t end well for her. Instead, her blue eyes were wide as she tried to stare the man down, her lips tight with anger.

“I’d pay a pretty penny for you, Irish Rose,” crooned the large trapper as he stood. He yanked her arm, forcing her to turn so he could get a good look at her firm ass.

“I said let me go!” the girl said loudly. She yelped as a large hand swatted her behind.

“She’s a feisty one,” the trapper chuckled to his breakfast companion, a man with coal black eyes and feminine lips. “I like ‘em feisty, right Jasmine?”

“I said no!” the girl – Jasmine – jerked herself out of the man’s grip. Her hand came down hard across his cheek, his head snapping to the side under the force of her blow. She pulled her hand back with a cry – broken, Victor thought. The trapper’s companion leapt to his feet.

There was a moment of silence as the trapper worked his jaw, bringing his fingers up to touch where Jasmine had struck him. When he lifted his head, his eyes were crackling with fury. “Ya stupid cunt,” he hissed, reaching out for her. “Yer mine now.”

The girl gasped and took a few steps back, cradling her injured hand to her stomach. Her wide, frightened eyes flicked around the room, hoping someone would help her, but the patrons seemed more interested in what was about to unfold rather than coming to her rescue.

Victor sighed; he wasn’t the type to rescue a frail in distress – that was more Jimmy’s thing – but he was eager for a fight. He hadn’t been in a good brawl since Montreal and it would feel good to bash some skulls, maybe spill some blood.

He slapped his hands on the table and stood, but before he could make a move, a small blur shot past him, and Victor caught Jasmine as she was suddenly shoved in his direction. There was a loud, hoarse cry and Victor saw the big man go down on his knees. Evan had the man’s arm twisted behind his back.

“Why’m I not surprised it’s you, Pointer?” Evan snarled. “It’s like ya go lookin’ for trouble.”

“Don’t want no trouble,” panted the other man, sweat beginning to pour into his thick moustache. “Jus’ wanted a l’il taste is all.” He grunted in pain as Evan yanked his arm higher.

“You know girls workin’ this side ain’t for sale, Stan,” Evan growled.

“Then why dontcha tell me all about her pussy, boy?” Pointer hissed. “Seems like th’ only one she’s spreadin’ for is you.”

The crack of Evan’s fist on the other man’s face had Jasmine gasping and pressing her face into Victor’s chest. There were two more loud smacks before the kid hauled Pointer over the girl, who breathlessly turned to face him.

“Apologize,” Evan demanded, an edge of danger in his voice.

Pointer gave Jasmine a wide, rotten-toothed smile before spitting a glob of bloody phlegm at her feet. “Fuck you,” he spluttered through his swollen jaw.

Evan dropped the man onto the hardwood floor and placed his foot against his throat, pressing down. “If I ever see you near Jasmine or in these walls again, I will kill you, understand?” Pointer was gasping for air, his hands clawing at the kid’s boot. His face was beginning to turn a shade of purple Victor had only seen once before. Evan increased the pressure. “Do. You. Understand.” Each word was carefully enunciated.The man gurgled a response and the kid removed his foot. “Get him out of here,” he said to Pointer’s companion. “NOW.”

The man scrambled to scrape the larger trapper off of the floor and Victor watched as Pointer was dragged out the door, leaving a bloody stripe behind him. Victor's cock was hard, harder than it had been in months. He wanted to fuck the kid so bad, feel his body move and sweat under his --

Jasmine flung herself at Evan as soon as the kid was close enough. “Are you okay?” he asked, his lips close to her cheek.

“I am now,” the girl replied. She sighed as she buried her head in the crook of his shoulder. Victor repressed the growl that threatened to release as jealousy touched him yet again.

“Your hand,” he said gently, cupping it in his own. “Go back to the kitchen and I’ll come look at it.”

Jasmine nodded, a pretty blush coming to her cheeks as she obeyed. The girl had just vanished when Madame O strode into the room, being careful not to tread on the streak of red on the floor.

“I saw Stanley Pointer being dragged out,” she said briskly, her eyes on Evan. “Was there trouble?”

“Taken care of, Madame,” Evan answered. “He’s banned.”

The woman nodded sharply, taking in the blood smeared on the hardwood. “Jasmine?”

“Jus’ a bit shaken is all,” the kid replied. Victor found it curious why he didn’t mention the girl’s broken hand, but he kept his mouth shut.

“Get Sophie to finish up breakfast,” Madame O said. “Mop up this…mess.”

It was Evan’s turn to nod and he headed back towards the kitchen. Madame spared a quick glance at Victor before sweeping out of the room without looking back. A small, plump girl with a mass of blonde curls in a ponytail came out with Victor’s breakfast and he sat as she placed it before him.

“Madame sends her apologies, sir,” she said in a soft, gentle voice. “She will not take payment for your meal. Please enjoy it with her compliments.”

Victor gave the girl a predatory smile that made her gasp, her chest flushing prettily and her heart racing before she fled back towards the kitchen. He cut into his steak and contemplated what the fuck he had just witnessed.

Evan was not a big kid; it was obvious he wasn't getting any bigger, but he had pounded a man three times his size into goddamn horse glue without batting an eye. Not only that, but considering the force of the hits the kid had bashed into Pointer’s face, he should have a few busted knuckles at the very least. Sure there had been blood smeared on Evan’s fist, but there hadn’t been any obvious injury to his hand.

Victor watched as the kid came out with a mop and bucket. The kid’s hands were free and clear and didn’t even show so much as a fucking bruise. Now Creed had some questions, and the fact his dick wasn’t getting any softer helped him make a decision. He could stay just a little while longer.

Jimmy could wait.



That night found Victor partaking in the particular charms of Marty again.

Earlier in the day, he’d managed to find the plump, pretty girl from the kitchen and gotten her to lift her dress for him. She’d been eager and tight, but inexperienced in the art of fucking. It left Victor wanting more.

Room 10 was specifically built for the larger men who frequented the bordello, so Creed was quite comfortable in a bed that could accommodate his six foot six inch frame. He was content for the moment; more so once the smaller man curled up against him, relaxed and covered in sweat and come.

Victor didn’t like many people to know, but he liked to cuddle after sex when he was in the mood. The closeness of another body made him feel wanted, even if he was paying for the privilege. There had been times when Jimmy hadn’t minded being pulled close in the middle of the night, but those times had grown less and less frequent before the runt had fucked off, leaving Victor alone.

He sighed and tucked his arms behind his head, his mind drifting back to Jimmy. When the image morphed into Evan, he sighed again and closed his eyes.

“What’s on your mind, Mr, Creed?” Marty asked gently, trailing his long fingers over the larger man’s well-defined chest.

“Been thinkin’ a lot about the kid,” Victor rumbled, his eyes opening.

Marty laughed softly, his fingers tugging Victor’s chest hair lightly. “I know,” he said. “Can’t help but see the way you look at him.”

Victor chuckled. “Don’t be jealous, Marty. I ain’t his type. ‘Sides, y’know you got the tightest ass in Alberta.”

Marty genuinely laughed and lifted his head to look down at the larger man’s face. “I got answers if you got questions, Mr. Creed.”

“How much?” he grumbled playfully.

“No extra charge,” Marty said slyly, his hand sliding down to brush Victor’s pubic hair, “except maybe another night with me.”

“You drive a hard bargain,” Victor smiled, “but you got yourself a deal.”



Over the next half an hour, Marty painted a vivid picture of Evan’s life.

The kid had been born and raised in and around Fort McMurray to a couple that had emigrated from England in order to take advantage of the discovery of oil in the area.

They arrived expecting a wild paradise, but instead found a harsh, unforgiving land filled with dangerous animals and even more dangerous men. The winters were brutally cold, the landscape cruel, but they managed to secure some property and build suitable lodging.

Evan was the second of two children; Marty was unsure of his sister’s name because he never mentioned it. The kid would only get a sad look in his eyes whenever the subject of siblings came up. His sister had been sold, Marty said, because the father had died, leaving the mother fending not only for herself, but also for two kids.

Evan’s sister was married off to a trapper who paid good coin for her, helping keep a roof over their heads and food on the table for the next little while. The girl had only been thirteen, her new husband ten years her senior. He had moved his new wife down south, towards Calgary.

Eventually, the mother grew ill and died, leaving eleven-year-old Evan to fend for himself. The kid chopped wood, skinned animals, tanned hides, anything at all in order to buy food and rent a room. He grew older and learned to scrap to keep himself safe and out of the way men who would gladly take advantage of a boy that young.

Evan was arrested after beating a man almost to death for trying to rape a woman at the local trading post – that woman being Madame Olive herself. She paid off the local constabulary and took the kid back to her bordello – to work as a bouncer. She knew there was power beneath that innocent looking face and small frame, so why not put it to better use rather than letting it go to waste in some jail?

The kid had been a great addition to the staff – fights and assaults were virtually zero. Men from all over had heard about Madame O’s enforcer and were wary about doing something that would earn Evan’s ire.

When a fight did go down, people would gather 'round and make bets about who would walk away and who would have to be carried away. Evan had apparently won quite a bit of money from those scraps. Marty was sure the kid had the cash squirrelled away somewhere.

Other than the brawls, Evan kept to himself. He did his chores, went hunting and fishing for meat, and never complained about any of it. Madame O said that Evan was the perfect employee and the kid seemed happy to have a permanent place to lay his head at night.



Victor almost wished he could give a fuck about Evan’s story, but he just couldn’t. The whole ‘orphaned-at-a-young-age-and-forced-to-fend-for-myself’ shit was too common around the world and he could only hear it so many times before being bored to absolute fucking death.

When Marty wrapped up the tale, Victor almost shouted a hallelujah. There was nothing interesting about the kid’s background and he was ready to get some serious fucking done.

“So, that’s all I know, Mr. Creed,” Marty said.

“It ain’t all ya know, Marty,” Victor purred as he pushed the other man’s towards his hard cock, “so why doncha show me what you do know?”

The man did just that.


Victor didn’t leave the comfort of Marty’s arms until well into the next afternoon. The smaller man was satisfied and exhausted, happy to be left luxuriating in the afterglow of being thoroughly fucked. Victor had promised to send Jasmine up with food and drink so that Marty could recover for the upcoming night he had planned.

He wasn’t able to find Jasmine, but he found the plump serving girl, who was more than happy to do as he asked. Victor rewarded the girl by letting her suck his cock. She seemed much more experienced at that task than what they had done yesterday, so he had no complaints.

Once that was done, Victor stepped outside to enjoy one of his cigars. He went around the bordello where it backed into the forest so he could enjoy the view and the scents of the pine and tall grass. Maybe catch of glimpse of something to hunt later.

What he managed to catch was Evan and Jasmine in an intimate embrace underneath the back stairs that led to the upstairs hallway. The kid had had his hands at the girl’s waist and she had her arms wrapped around his neck, their lips locked in a heated kiss.

Jasmine broke the kiss, pulling away only slightly. “Please, Evan,” she pleaded softly. “I want –“

Evan placed a finger over her lips. “Shhh,” he whispered. He captured her mouth in another kiss, slowly backing her so that she was pressed up against the wall of the bordello. “Lift your dress.”

Jasmine did as she was bid, lifting her dress until Evan pressed his knee between her legs, spreading them wider. “Evan,” she gasped as he slipped his hand beneath the raised hem.

He pressed against her, kissing the side of her neck gently. She whimpered as he began to stroke her, her young body trembling under the sensations that were shooting through her. “Feel good?” Evan murmured, nipping Jasmine’s earlobe.

“Y-yes,” she groaned as her hands convulsed on his shoulders. “Oh, Evan. Please!”

Victor could smell the girl’s arousal beginning to spike; she was close to orgasm. He’d always loved the scent of a woman’s climax, that tang of come and bodily juices; but it was that precious moment before the orgasm that was his favourite. The way her sweat would mix with the sweetness of her pheromones…Heat shot through him, electrifying his animal senses.

Evan seized Jasmine’s mouth in a passionate kiss as the girl began to tremble violently against him, her orgasm overtaking her. He muffled her cries with his mouth, his tongue delving deeply until she stopped shaking.

Suddenly, Jasmine’s knees gave out and he caught her with a laugh. “You all right?” Evan asked, stroking one cheek with his hand.

“I think I saw stars.” Jasmine panted. The kid chuckled and held her until she was able to stand of her own volition. He helped her adjust her dress before backing away, straightening his own clothes while she watched him. “When can we meet again?”

“Jasmine, we can’t make this a thing. The more we do it, the more likely we’ll get caught, an’ you know Madame O don’t like it when staff is messin’ around,” Evan’s voice was firm but then Jasmine’s face fell and so did the kid’s resolve. He caught her hand in his own and squeezed it gently. “Coupla days, okay?"

Her face lit up and she leaned forward and planted a quick kiss on Evan’s lips before climbing up the stairs. He watched Jasmine go, rubbing his eyes with his fists as soon as the door banged shut behind her.

“Jesus Christ, girl,” Evan muttered, “you’re in for a world of hurt.”

Victor chuckled to himself as the kid wandered into the forest on a well worn trail that led down to the river. Then it hit him: the girl’s hand was no longer broken. She had gripped and groped Evan as if it hadn’t been hurt at all.

There was absolutely no way that Jasmine’s hand had not been broken after that slap. So why was it suddenly fine as if nothing happened? Had he been mistaken?

Victor growled and stuffed the cigar back into his jacket pocket. Things were fucked up around here and he planned on getting to the bottom of it – but not before he found that plump serving girl and showed her how to put that pussy to good use.



The evening was turning out to be a relaxing one for Victor; he’d had that serving girl mewling and groaning and her pussy squeezing his cock like a goddamn professional earlier that afternoon, and now he was looking forward to a long and lusty night with Marty.

Victor was just cutting into his bloody steak when Madame O approached his table. “Mr, Creed,” she said, “forgive me for disturbing you, but have you seen or spoken with Martin recently?”

“Nope,” he replied. “Got a night planned with him, though. Paid for.”

“Of course,” Madame O said quickly. “It’s only that he was supposed to start at the bar thirty minutes ago. He hasn’t shown, so I assumed he might be in your company.”

“Last time I saw Marty was this mornin’,” Victor said.

Madame O pursed her lips and glanced over his head towards where Jasmine was busy wiping down empty tables. “He’s never done anything like this before.”

Victor put a piece of steak in his mouth and chewed. “Could be runnin’ late with a customer.”

“He had no one booked for the day except for you,” she said, her voice concerned. Madame O wrung her hands. “Evan is checking the property. Oh, I do hope nothing bad has happened. Marty’s been drawing some unwanted attention lately; he can be a bit flamboyant.”

The large blonde man took a few seconds to cast his gaze around the establishment. It was full of regular clientele: trappers, traders, hunters, and a few clergymen. His eyes set on a particular figure – the fine-featured man who had been sitting with Stanley Pointer that morning. “Who’s that?”

Madame O looked towards where Victor had indicated. “Jacques Philippe, a Quebecois fur trapper and trader."

“One o’ Pointer’s cronies?”

Madame O’s body went completely still. “Yes.”

“They close, Pointer and Philippe?”

“You don’t normally see one without the other.”

Victor dabbed at his mouth with a napkin and stood, his chair tipping to the floor with a clatter. Madame O stayed behind as Victor strode over to where Philippe was seated, playing cards with a few other men. Three of them looked up at Victor’s approach, but the trapper kept his eyes on his cards.

“Que veux-tu?” The French-Canadian’s voice held a ‘don’t fuck with me’ quality, which was too damn bad because Victor was in the mood for fucking with the guy.

Victor swept the cards off the table, sending the chips clattering to the floor. It got Philippe’s attention; the man looked up at Creed with hard brown eyes. “Where’s Pointer?”

The trapper shrugged as the three other men slowly got up from their chairs and hastened past Madame O and out the door. “I’m not ‘is keeper." Creed bent low over the table so he could see eye to eye with the man. “I know otherwise. Yer here so he ain’t far behind. Tell me an’ I’ll spare yer pretty French face.”

Jacques sighed and laid his cards on the table. Three eights over a pair of twos. Not a bad hand. “I don’ know where ‘e is,” he said, a smug smile on his face. “Even if I did, why would I tell you, faggot?”

The room fell silent and the trapper’s face twitched as if he was trying not to laugh. He thought that the slur had threatened Victor’s manhood, hurt him somehow, but honestly, Victor didn’t give a shit. He could smell the lie coming from Jacques as easily as he could smell meat burning on the grill.

Victor stood and stepped close to the Quebecois trapper, bumping his shins on the chair where the man sat, putting his crotch even with his face. “I can smell ya lyin’ pretty boy, an’ I ain’t in the mood fer it. Tell me where yer buddy is or I’ll beat ya so hard you’ll be shittin’ teeth fer a week.”

He lengthened his claws a touch to let Philippe know he wasn’t fucking around. The French-Canadian’s eyes darted back and forth between Creed and the door, as if he was expecting someone to burst through and rescue him – or maybe thinking that he could make a dash for it. Victor wiggled his fingers slightly and smiled wide enough to show his canines, daring Jacques to run.

A few seconds ticked by. Sweat began to bead in Philippe’s hairline as he eyed the blonde man’s claws and teeth; Creed breathed in the scent of the other man’s fear, basking in it. A few more seconds ticked by. The French-Canadian’s face started to crumble – he was going to talk.

As soon as the trapper’s mouth opened, Evan burst in from the back, face flushed with rage. “Found Marty,” he growled. “It ain’t good; I need someone t’ help me move him,” Jasmine stepped forward but Evan waved her back. “It’s not a sight for a lady. It’s – it’s bad.”

Victor backhanded Philippe, sending the man to the floor hard enough to knock him out, blood leaking from his mouth. “I’ll deal with him later, Madame O. Get one o’ the girls that’s good with knots an’ tie this bastard up,” He turned to Evan. “I’ll help, kid. Show me.”

Everyone was silent as Victor followed the solemn-faced kid down the back hall and out of the side door. As soon as they were outside, he immediately picked up the scent of blood, pain, and semen. Victor was used to seeing people in all sorts of states: half-dead, all dead, pieces missing. He didn’t like that someone had hurt Marty; he barely knew the guy, but he was a hell of a fuck and really did have the tightest ass in Alberta.

Evan wasn’t talking but Victor could tell how angry he was by the way his small fists clenched and unclenched as he walked. They followed a path that wound out down by the river, but the kid stopped by a clearing and motioned Creed forward.

Marty lay there, his face swollen, eyes crusted shut with blood. He was bleeding from a multitude of wounds, the worst being a slice across his throat. Victor noticed a cloth was bound around that injury; Evan must have done it to stem the blood.

“He was raped too,” Evan said softly as he knelt by his friend. “The fucker took from him forcefully what he coulda paid for,” Marty moaned as the kid stroked the man’s cheek gently. “Ssshhh, Marty. I brought Mr. Creed to help.”

The injured man’s black eyes cracked slightly as he tried to look up at the large blonde man. His voice sounded relieved as he tried to mumble something that sounded like Victor's name through a mouthful of broken teeth.

“Don’t talk, Marty,” Creed said gruffly. “I’m gonna pick ya up an’ it’s gonna hurt like hell. If ya gotta scream, do it. No one’ll judge you.”

He knelt by the man’s body and carefully slid an arm under his head, the other under his knees. Marty’s neck didn’t feel broken, but his right leg was twisted, his foot facing the wrong direction. Most of his fingers were broken, his left elbow smashed to the point that it was a mess of bone and blood.

Marty’s face was the worst. His beautiful mouth was practically caved in over cracked and missing teeth, his nose crushed flat over his shattered cheekbones. Semen was splattered across the man’s ruined face, mixed with the blood.

Once the fucker had bashed Marty senseless and raped him, he’d taken the time to ejaculate on Marty’s busted face.

“Get him back to the bordello,” Evan said. “I’m gonna find Pointer, then I’ll be back to help Marty.” The kid was gone in a flash, running fast back towards the street.

Victor counted to three and lifted Marty as gently as he could, but the man shrieked himself hoarse before Creed had taken no more than five steps. There was no way the man was going to survive; his injuries were too severe and there was no way the nurse Madame O kept was going to have the proper supplies or training to deal with this kind of damage.

Victor thought of setting Marty back down and finishing it – just ending the man’s pain and suffering, putting him down like a wounded animal. He’d killed before and it certainly didn’t bother him to kill again, even it was someone he liked fucking. But somehow, Victor found himself following Evan’s orders, despite the fact that the smell of blood and pain was making him hungry, making him see red, pushing him further towards animal.

Madame O was shocked when Victor came striding into the bordello with Marty in his arms, but he had to hand it to the frail – she didn’t pass out. She’d gotten the nurse, a pinched-faced older woman with arms like a cowhand and the no-nonsense attitude of someone who had seen and dealt with a lot of shit. Victor and Madame followed the nurse down a back hallway to a medium sized room that housed two cots, a large cabinet, a large table that looked like it had been through a war, and a working sink. The nurse went to the sink and washed her hands and arms thoroughly while instructing Madame O to spread a sheet on the table and for Victor to put Marty down as soon as Madame was done.

“This doesn’t look good,” the nurse said to Madame. “If he lives through the night, I’d be surprised.”

“I’ve sent for the doctor.” Madame replied, wringing her hands.

“Nancy Thurman’s been about to burst with that baby,” the nurse said. “It’s possible he’s with her. If you’re a praying woman, I’d get to it right quick.”

Madame O raised a hand to her mouth, tears glittering in her eyes. That was enough for Victor. Pain, blood, suffering – those were things he knew how to handle. A crying frail? He wasn’t equipped to deal with the tears of a woman who wasn’t underneath him, a woman who was feeling his anger and torment pounded into her by way of sex.

Victor left silently and went back to the eating area, straightening his cuffs as he did so. If Evan couldn’t find Pointer, he would.

He wasn’t kidding when he came here looking for someone stupid and wicked – or if he put it in tastier terms: prey. Pointer had walked unknowingly into the jaws of a monster.

A monster named Victor Creed.



Jasmine was standing by the dining room window, her hands twisted in worry as Victor strode into the room. Again he puzzled over why the fuck her right hand wasn’t busted to shit, but a cry from the street caught his attention. She spared him a glance but quickly turned her eyes back to the commotion outside.

Victor pushed through the heavy door into the late daylight and joined the crowd of men that had gathered in a circle.

Evan had Pointer in the dirt, one hand fisted in the collar of the man’s filthy shirt, other fist poised to strike. Stan looked like he’d walked through a meat grinder, his face torn and bloody, his nose splattered over his cheek. His right eye was beginning to blacken. The kid didn’t have a single mark.

“You sick son of bitch,” Evan snarled, bringing his fist down on the other man’s face with a sickening crack. “That’s my friend you did that to. My friend!”

He landed two more blows before Stan began to sob, a wet stain spreading over the front of his trousers. The kid let the man’s shirt go and he plopped to the dirt inelegantly, crying like a baby.

“Don’t you ever think about darkenin’ this doorstep again, Stanley Pointer,” Evan growled, kicking the snivelling man in the stomach. “I see you sniffin’ around, I’ll kill you, understand?”

The blubbering man choked out an answer that seemed to please Evan, who took a step back, pulled two teeth out of the flesh his hand and tossed them down beside Pointer. Then the kid snorted deep in the back of his throat and spat on the man for good measure.

Pointer rolled over, sobbing into the dirt, and Evan placed a booted foot on the back of the man’s head and pushed down, grinding his face into the dirt and gravel of the street. The man started flailing, unable to breathe, but the kid kept stomping Pointer’s face into the grime until he was satisfied. With the sweep of his leg, Evan kicked Stanley in the side once, twice, three times before turning and walking back into the bordello. Victor watched him go, his groin tightening, heat curling firm in his belly.

“Shit, I never get tired of seen’ that kid scrap,” said a clergyman who was next to Victor.

“Ain’t that old, either,” said a geezer. “Fifteen, I heard.”

“Sixteen, I think,” said the priest.

The geezer snorted. “Who the fuck cares? Hell of a fighter. Never seen him with a wound, neither.”

The man of the cloth agreed. “Never needed stitches, far as I can remember. No bruises, nothin’.”

Stanley Pointer, moaning in pain, had managed to get to his knees, blood, saliva, and snot dripping from his face. His dirt and blood caked face was streaked with the tracks of his tears, some of which were leaking from his swollen right eye. He put a hand to his obviously broken cheek and spat out a tooth.

“What th’ fuck did that guy do?” a red bearded man asked the priest as Stanley got unsteadily to his feet.

“Got one o’ Madame O’s guys alone, beat him,” the man replied, his eyes following Stanley as he staggered away. “Fucked ‘im up pretty good too.”

“Martin, I think,” the geezer supplied. “Damn shame. That guy had the tightest ass.”

The crowd began to disperse and Victor stepped towards the scene of the fight, the footprints still scuffed into the ground, blood beginning to get sucked into the thirsty dirt. He spotted the two teeth that Evan had plucked from the back of his hand like they were nothing but a minor annoyance and picked them up, clutching them like a talisman. Slowly, he eased the teeth into the pocket of his coat.

As Victor turned towards the door, he caught Jasmine’s eye. The girl had her face set in a stony expression. She looked at Victor’s pocket, the one where his hand clutched the teeth, and nodded solemnly.

Victor smiled at her.



“Just go away!” Victor heard Evan’s voice yelling from the nurse’s room. “I know what I’m doing!”

“You listen here, boy,” the nurse’s voice was equally angry. “You are not a doctor and you are not a nurse. I can take better care of this man than you.”

“You keep sayin’ he’s gonna die! How’s that helpful?” Evan was desperate now, practically pleading. “Please, let me stay with him. He’s my friend!”

“Evan –“ began Madame O, but Victor cut her off as soon as he walked through the door.

“Let the kid stay, Olive,” he said. “It ain’t gonna do no harm. ‘Sides, you’d be better out on the floor, keepin’ the customers and th’ girls calm. I’ll keep an eye on th’ kid.”

Madame O wrung her hands as she looked at Marty, who was now wrapped up like a mummy and laid out on one of the cots. Her face was unsure; she wanted to stay with him, bring him comfort. Victor crossed to her and took one of her hands in his.

“Olive,” he said, “You know I’m right. You’re strong enough an’ the staff needs that right now. They need their leader.”

She took one more look at the bartender, straightened her dress, and left the room with her head held high. Victor watched her go before turning back to look at Evan.

The kid held one of Marty’s hands and had his forehead pressed to the mattress, the top of his head touching the bartender’s side gently. Victor could hear Evan’s breathing as his fingers stroked the back of the other man’s mangled hand. He knew the kid was trying hard not to cry.

The nurse went over and checked Marty’s pulse, then gave the large blonde man the shake of her head. She didn’t have to; the man’s heartbeat was weak and stuttering, his breathing ragged due to the blood in his lungs. Marty wouldn’t last the night.

“I shoulda killed ‘im,” Evan was whispering into the blanket that covered the unconscious man. “I shoulda killed ‘im.”

The boy kept repeating those words over and over until Victor couldn’t stand it any longer. Evan’s grief was touching something inside of him and he didn’t quite like it. He wasn’t an emotional man, not prone to fits of tears or feelings of misery. His childhood taught him that there was no room for softness in his life; he needed to be hardest, be the strongest, be the toughest. Victor had to be a killer.

He let the nurse know he’d be back in a bit and went to find Madame O. She was in the front area with a smile on her face, continuing business as usual. The girls and staff continued to operate around her as if nothing had happened. A brutish looking man had taken the stool by the front door, obviously one of the other bouncers.

Victor gripped Madame’s elbow firmly as he stepped up to her. “Where’s Philippe?”

“Tied up out back,” she responded quietly, perking up when a familiar customer came through the entrance. “Thomas, so lovely to see you!”

Victor let her go and went towards the door he knew would lead him out the side, where Evan had taken him to find Marty. When he came around the back, it took a few seconds for Victor to find the French-Canadian trapper – he had struggled enough that he’d managed to tip himself onto his side.

The large blonde could smell the trapper’s fear as he came closer; it was like an aphrodisiac. He’d gone without the kill for too long – the beast inside was hungry. With a growl, he grabbed Philippe with one hand and tilted his chair upright, setting him down roughly in the dirt.

Philippe’s brown eyes were no longer hard; they were terrified. Sweat dripped from his face, blood speckling his cheek from when Victor had hit him earlier. The blood made Victor’s vision go red for a moment, his sharp incisors sliding out from between his lips. The trapper began to struggle in earnest; tears dripping unbidden down his face.

Victor lengthed his claws and brought them to his face, admiring how sharp they looked in the evening sun. “Didja know what your pal was gonna do?”

“N-non,” Philippe stammered, his eyes also on Victor claws. “Je ne savais pas!”

Victor bent down, bringing his claws closer to the man’s throat. “See, I think yer lyin’ an’ you wanna know why?”

The trapper’s eyes were as big as saucers, watering profusely. He nodded slowly, swallowing loudly as one claw nicked his Adam’s apple. Victor chuckled as he watched the bright red rivulet of blood trickle down and disappear under the collar of the man’s shirt.

Victor pushed his face so it was barely an inch away from Philippe’s, as if they were about to kiss. “Because I can smell it on ya, Frenchie,” he whispered, his voice menacing. “You knew exactly what yer buddy was doin’ an’ you did nothing to stop it. An’ no one’s gonna stop me from what I’m gonna do.”

Philippe began to sob in earnest. “Please don’ kill me! I know what ‘e do. Désolé, désolé. I ‘ave children, m’seiur! Spare my life!”

Victor loved it when they begged. It tickled something deep within him; like that person was the first to plead for his or her wretched existence, like Victor was a man who would listen to such bullshit and change his mind to spare the fucking waste of space.

On the other hand, the beast was howling for a hunt and Philippe would make excellent prey. The man was a tracker and a hunter; he’d know his way around these woods. It would make the chase more…exciting.

His claws sliced through the rope easily and Philippe stood immediately, his face a mask of surprise. As he was rubbing circulation back into his hands, Victor said, “Get out o’ here. As far away as possible.”

“Merci, merci.” Philippe began to bow ridiculously as he backed away from the blonde man.

“If I find ya in the woods tonight, I’m gonna gut ya like tha coward ya are.” Victor said, extending all of his claws at once.

The trapper hesitated and Victor took that moment to leap at him with a roar, slashing threateningly. With a hoarse scream, Jacques Philippe fled into the forest, leaving behind a scent trail of terror.

Victor breathed it in, letting it coat the bottom of his lungs. He hadn’t felt this alive in a while.



Evan seemed like he was asleep when Victor came back into the nurse’s room. He stirred as the larger man came close, sitting up with difficulty.

“You look like shit,” Victor said gruffly. “Let’s get ya something to eat.”

Evan cast his green eyes over the slumbering form of Marty. To Victor’s surprise, the battered man was actually beginning to look better; he couldn’t hear blood rattling in the man’s lungs and his face seemed a bit less shattered than before. Maybe it’d been the shadows playing tricks with his eyes.

“Yeah, okay.” Evan went to stand but he wobbled on his feet. Victor managed to catch him before he tumbled onto the cot.

It was the first time Victor had laid hands on the kid and a sizzle of scorching heat shot up his arm and wrapped around his arm, setting it ablaze and knocking the air from his lungs. Evan started, like he felt it too, and moved closer to him, their clothes brushing as they gasped for breath. Victor almost growled – the kid smelled of Stanley Pointer’s blood and nothing else. No scent, not even this fucking close.

“Sorry,” Evan muttered as he backed away, his cheeks faintly pink. “Wearier than I thought.”

Victor released the boy and followed him to the dining room, just in case the kid went down again. It was late now, nearing nine, though the sun hadn’t given thought to the idea of setting. Evan pulled a hand rolled cigarette from his pocket and lit it with a match that he left on the table. He took a deep draw and let the smoke drift around his face. It nearly covered the exhaustion that was there.

“Ya did a good job out there, kid,” Victor said, a touch of admiration in his voice.

Evan shrugged. “I don’t like people judgin’ others. Ain’t none of us got the right. Marty’s a good guy an’ that’s what should count, not th’ fact he likes t’ take it up th’ ass.”

He shrugged out of his jacket just as Jasmine came towards the pair with a basin of warm water and a clean cloth. “For your hands, Evan,” she said, blushing prettily as the kid smiled at her. “Do you need a clean shirt? I can get you one.”

“Nah,” Evan said. “Not much blood, see? I’ll just dab it with th’ water. Thanks, Jasmine.”

She collected the spent match. “Can I get you two some supper? There’s leftover stew and I made bread this morning.”

“Sounds great. You gotta try Jasmine’s bread, Mr. Creed; it’s the best I’ve ever had. She’ll make some lucky man a great wife one day.” Evan’s grin was brilliant but forced, as if he didn’t want the girl to see how fatigued he was.

Her blush deepened and practically fled once Victor agreed to the meal. Evan tucked the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and set to rolling up his shirtsleeves before dipping his hands in the water. It turned a sickly pink colour that became darker as Evan scrubbed at the dried stains with the cloth.

“You got an admirer,” Victor said, tilting his head to where the girl had gone.

Evan plucked the cigarette from his mouth and gave a lopsided smile. “Yeah,” he said, his green eyes lighting up. “Jasmine’s sweet, but she’s still a girl. Doesn’t know what she wants yet.”

Victor leaned back, pulling a silver cigarette case from the inside pocket of his jacket. He accepted a lit match from Evan and blew out a cloud of smoke. “Seemed like she knew what she wanted earlier this afternoon when you two were behind the bordello,” he said, watching Evan’s eyes widen.

The boy’s whole body stilled and he raised those green eyes to lock onto Victor’s amber ones. “She’s a good girl, Mr. Creed,” Evan said quietly. “I wouldn’t do nothin’ to tarnish her reputation.”

Victor continued to look at the kid, amused by how he managed to keep eye contact with the larger man. It was almost a challenge. Almost. It started a small fire in Victor’s veins. This boy would’ve been a fine alpha. He took another drag from his cigarette.

“I’ll pay ya to keep quiet,” Evan began. “I’ve got –“

“Save it, kid,” Victor drawled. “I ain’t interested in tattlin’ and I don’t want your money. Jus’ be more careful about it, huh?”

Evan was still suspicious but he nodded slowly and dried his hands on his trousers. Jasmine came back with a tray laden with food: stew, bread, two rare steaks, baked potatoes oozing with hand-churned butter, and a bottle of whiskey. Good whiskey, not the shit that was at the bar.

“It’s from Madame’s personal stash,” Jasmine gushed as she gathered the basin and cloth. “She wants to thank you for helping with Marty.”

Just as she was about to turn away, Victor caught the girl’s left wrist. Evan stiffened as Jasmine turned to the large blonde man with a puzzled expression.

“Something wrong, Mr. Creed?” she asked, her eyes flicking to Evan and back. “Jus’ wonderin’ ‘bout that hand o’ yours,” he said slyly. “Seems t’ me you broke it on Pointer’s ugly face, but it don’t look no worse for th’ wear.”

Jasmine quickly glanced at her right hand, a flush working over her chest, her lips moving soundlessly. Evan jumped to his feet, turning the girl towards the kitchen, giving her a small push.

“Wasn’t broken,” he said abruptly. “I had a look; nothin’ wrong with it.”

Victor hummed in interest, but let it drop, amused by the expression on the kid’s face. He couldn’t smell it, but he knew it was a lie.

As Evan sat, Victor poured himself and the kid each a shot before they both dug into the meal. He was hungry but Evan was ravenous, stuffing more chow into his mouth before swallowing what was already in there. It was like he hadn’t eaten in a week. Between bites, the kid tossed back shot after shot of whiskey like it was water and he was a dehydrated horse that had finished crossing a desert.

“Jesus, kid,” Victor laughed, “slow the hell down. You’re gonna choke.”

Evan looked up, his mouth packed with steak, potato, and bread, cheeks swollen like a greedy chipmunk’s. He chewed slowly and swallowed until he was able to open his mouth to take a breath. “Hungry,” was all he said before taking another drink of whiskey.

Victor pushed away his empty plate and lit up another cigarette. “Y’know, you talk about the girl bein’ just a kid, but you ain’t much more than a kid yourself. You know what you want?”

“Sure do, sir.” Evan replied, pouring Victor another whiskey.

“Got it all figured out, huh?” Victor watched the kid pour another shot for himself.

“Yessir,” Evan lifted his glass in a toast. “To figurin’ it all out.”

“I’ll drink t’ that.” Victor couldn’t help but laugh as the pair clinked glasses before tossing the alcohol down his throat.



During the summer, true dark in Alberta didn’t come until eleven o’clock at night, the sun taking its sweet time to make sure every single thing across the prairie province got soaked with its rays. It was almost as if the sun were apologizing for the short winter days, when it would rise, spend a few hours, then get the hell out of shit town.

The long days could make hunting difficult, but Victor could be patient when he wanted to be – and tonight, he was feeling extremely patient.

The first kill had been glorious; Jacques Philippe had screamed shrill and loud and long as Victor gutted the man like a deer, his blood splashing over the trees, ebony spots shining bright in the rays of the setting sun.

Victor ate some of the organs, something that Jimmy had hated him doing. But this was his kill, his meat, and he was going to partake. Why waste the good stuff? Once he was done, he pissed on the carcass – and also jerked off on it, for good measure – then left it for the scavengers.

Philippe had made it far enough away from town that Victor figured that the body wouldn’t be discovered for months, possibly even years, and by then, it would have been picked clean.

Licking the last of the blood from his lips, Victor dipped his hand back into his jacket pocket, feeling the teeth that were still there – the ones Evan had plucked from the back of his hand. The kid had messed Pointer up pretty good, so he knew that the injured man couldn’t have gotten far – and he was right. Thanks to the teeth, and the fact he stank of piss, following Pointer’s scent had been relatively easy.

The man had only gotten about an hour out of town and Victor found him singing loudly, pissing against a tree. The area was fairly secluded – it was one of the lesser-used trails in and out of town – and it looked like the man was comfortable enough to bed down for the night. Pointer’s bedroll was out, a few supplies from his pack scattered around.

Victor was content to watch Stanley from a tree about 100 metres away. The man was getting ready for bed and despite his swollen and aching face, he seemed like he didn’t have a care in the world. It pleased Victor to see the piece of shit feeling safe; it made the hunt more exciting if the prey was lulled into a false sense of security.

He was surprised by the crack of a branch and Pointer jumped slightly, a few splatters of urine wetting his trousers. Victor muttered to himself, angry that the sound had made him start, almost revealing his hiding place.

“Shit,” the man muttered as he stuffed his dick back into his pants. It wasn’t as if it mattered – he already stank of urine thanks to losing control of his bladder after the fight – but it was one more thing that Stanley Pointer didn’t fucking need. Victor smiled.

There was another crack, followed by footsteps. Shaking the leg of his ruined pants, Pointer turned towards the sound. “Th’ fuck are ya doin’ here?” the man mumbled through his distended jaw. It was a show of false bravado; Victor could smell Stanley’s fear. “Din’ get enough?”

The hiss of a match and a flicker of flame followed the man’s question. “Jus’ makin’ sure yer leaving.” The voice caressed Victor’s thighs and made his cock jump in his trousers: Evan.

But it couldn’t be the kid; there was no fucking way he could have found Pointer. Not only that, the boy had passed out after dinner and Victor had left him sound asleep in the cot next to Marty’s.

Stanley flinched back as Evan stepped closer. The kid flicked the ash of his cigarette towards the larger man, his expression unreadable. “Yeah, yeah,” the man slurred, turning his back on Evan and dropping to his knees by his bedroll. “Don’t worry; I ain’t coming back.”

“Glad to hear it.” Evan said, taking a drag on his cigarette.

Stanley ignored the kid for a moment, but then Victor saw a terrible smile creep over the man’s face. He slowly turned his head towards Evan and said in a contemptible voice, “How’s th’ faggot?”

The kid closed his lips around his cigarette and stepped forward. “His name is Martin Gagnon, you sick fuck.”

Pointer didn’t have time to reply before Evan grabbed the man’s head and gave it a sharp twist, the crack of his neck ricocheting through the woods like a gunshot. The body flopped soundlessly to the dirt, arms and legs sprawling gracelessly.

The kid smoked for a few minutes before crouching next to the corpse, placing two fingers against the side of its neck. Satisfied there was no pulse, the kid continued to smoke his cigarette, his eyes fixed on the body’s startled face.

Once Evan had taken the last puff, he ground the cigarette out on the stiff’s forehead before tucking the stub into his pocket. Quickly, he tore the bedroll into pieces with his own hands and tossed them into the woods, rifled through the dead man’s belongings, tucked everything back into the pack before slinging it over his shoulder. Crouching once more, Evan picked the body up by the waist and flung it over his shoulder, much as he had the backpack.

And the kid had done it all with ease.

Victor should’ve been pissed that his prey had been picked off, taken by another, but both he and the beast couldn’t help but be electrified. He hadn’t even sensed the kid approach – the crack of the branches should have been a clue, but there had been no scent; wildlife downwind, Victor had thought, or the breeze. It certainly wouldn’t have been the way Victor would have killed, but it had been remarkable all the same. Not only that, the display of savagery of strength had made Victor as hard as a rock.


The burning desire he’d felt for Evan intensified, the need growing deeper, almost into his bones. Victor slid down the tree and followed the kid deeper into the woods.

It was time to take what he wanted.



Night had blanketed its darkness over the sky as Victor continued to stalk Evan through the forest. The kid walked for a good forty-five minutes without rest and by the time he came to a stop and dropped the body, night had well and truly fallen.

Victor didn’t need a lot of light to see; the stars provided more than enough brightness, almost as if the sun were still high in the sky. He was beginning to suspect Evan was the same, as the kid had had no trouble traversing the unmarked trail. He also had no trouble picking helpful items out of the dead man’s pack and pocketing them for future use: a knife, a comb, a mirror, a few shirts, and lastly, an impressive wad of cash.

Evan whistled at the lump he held in his hand, running his thumb over the bills before stuffing them inside a pocket. He stood and studied the corpse for a minute before nudging it towards a granite cliff that was dotted with sparse pine.

With a grunt, Evan shoved Stanley Pointer’s corpse down the cliff and watched as it cart wheeled over the rocks and stone before flying out into the air, dropping straight down into a dark crevice without a sound.

The kid picked up Pointer’s pack and considered it, turning it around in his hands. Instead of adding it to his pile of ill-gotten gains, Evan weighed down the sack and pitched it off the cliff where it followed the trajectory of the body.

Crouching, the kid rummaged around in one of his pockets and brought out the cigar Victor had given him earlier and the pocketknife he had snagged from Pointer’s sack. He cut the cigar expertly and brought it to his nose to appreciate the smell. Evan tucked the cigar securely in his mouth and lit it before crouching down, looking at where the body had gone.

Evan squatted in silence for a while, enjoying the cigar and the starlight. Victor enjoyed watching the boy as the aromatic smoke curled into the air and how every pull from the kid’s small mouth lit up his features in a reddish-orange glow. He looked like a demon; Victor revelled in it.

“No one’ll miss you, Stanley Pointer, you son of a bitch,” Evan said as he stood, stubbed out his smoke and placed it in his pocket. “When you get t’ Hell, tell my bastard husband I said it’s too good of a place for a fucker like ‘im.”

Victor’s ears perked up. Did he hear that last part correctly? Before he could gather his thoughts, Evan began ambling off further into the forest. Victor followed eagerly.


Victor stalked Evan for another hour before the kid stopped by a creek. He went to his knees and scooped water into his mouth thirstily. When sated, he leaned back, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

With a sigh, the kid shucked off his jacket and cap, rolling them up to use as a pillow before laying back in the grass, hands tucked behind his head, eyes fixed on the sky. With the starlight shining across his face, Evan looked far younger than his sixteen years. Almost like a child, really, Victor thought as he watched from a tree.

If Victor had been a different man, he’d have wondered why such a young kid would murder another man in cold blood without a second thought. If Victor had been a different man, he would had felt sorry that life had made the kid so hard at so young an age.

But Victor was who he was, and he’d known blood and violence and death and murder since he was a boy, younger and smaller than Evan. It hadn’t fazed him to see those small hands break the neck of the larger man. Pointer certainly hadn’t been helpless, but he hadn’t stood a chance.

Slowly, silently, Victor slipped down from the tree, going low in the grass, his eyes fixed on Evan. The kid stood and stretched before slipping off the suspenders attached to his trousers.

Evan’s hands moved leisurely to the buttons of his shirt, beginning at the bottom. Victor was salivating by the time the third one popped open.
He loped towards the kid quietly, keeping down. The kid was working on the fourth when Victor slammed into him, riding him to the ground.

The boy hit the dirt with a grunt, face first, the wind knocked out of him. Victor clenched Evan’s shoulders, gripping the kid’s legs tight with his thighs. The body felt amazing under him as Evan gasped for breath, fire burning from his brain to his groin. He leaned back, ready to let the beast howl, wanting the world to know that it’d found his prey; it was going to stake its claim. But before he could release his triumph, Evan did something Victor wasn’t expecting: he laughed.

“Was wonderin’ when you’d make a move, Mr Creed,” Evan said, his voice muffled. “Was followin’ me for a long time.”

Victor growled, placing his large hand on the back of the kid’s head, claws extended. “How’d you know it was me?”

Evan turned his head to the side and spat out some dirt. “Could smell you from a mile away,” the kid replied.

“You can smell me?”

“Yeah, smells like wood smoke and lightning,” Evan licked his lips. “Dangerous; I like it.”

Victor removed his hand from the kid’s head, placing it back on his shoulder to keep him pinned. He leaned down and buried his nose in Evan’s hair, travelling to the kid’s hairline and down to the back of his neck. The kid’s breath hitched, but he kept as still as a fucking statue.

“You ain’t got no scent,” he said gruffly.

“I like to keep it a secret,” Evan said, a smile evident in his voice. “Makes me invisible to certain people.”

Victor’s nose was still pressed against the kid’s neck and a sense of urgent desire came over him. He dragged his rough tongue over the skin where the shoulder and neck connected. Evan shivered with delight, a small moan escaping his lips. Then Victor opened his mouth and let his canines scrape against the same spot, close to where the pulse fluttered. Evan lifted his head with a snarl.

There was no mistaking that noise – it was a warning, a caution that the kid would attack if Victor put his teeth too close to the vulnerable area. It confirmed what he had been thinking: Evan was a feral.

It explained why he could take on someone larger, why he could leave a scrap without a mark on him, the strange, graceful way he moved why he could find his way through the forest in the dark, why he called so strongly to Victor’s beast even though there had been no identifying scent. It also explained why Evan had no problem holding Victor’s gaze. The kid was a fucking alpha.

Feral could recognize feral. Victor rumbled from deep in his chest as he nipped at Evan’s earlobe. The kid responded in kind, the sound reverberating through the larger man, causing him to moan lightly. He started kneading Evan’s shoulders, the claws pricking through the fabric of the kid’s shirt.

“You know what I am, dontcha?” Victor asked quietly, his breath ghosting Evan’s ear.

“No,” the kid answered, “but somethin’ ‘bout you calls t’ me,”

“You’re like me,” Victor purred. “You’re strong, you like killin’. You heal too, dontcha? Didn’t see any marks on you after your scuffle with Pointer. You like blood, kid? Stalkin’ prey through the woods, the sweetness of takin’ it down, tearin’ into it –“

“Yes,” Evan murmured.

“We’re wild fuckin’ animals, you an’ me. Ferals. Alphas. Strong. Normally alphas don’t like each other. Instincts an’ shit, y’know? Territorial. We got primal urges too, like th’ need t’ fuck,” One of Victor’s hands went back to Evan’s head, his fingers stroking through the soft hair. “I like you, kid. Stole my prey though, so ya owe me.”

“Got money,” Evan said. “Inside jacket pocket.”

“Don’t want your money,” Victor replied, his claws pricking the skin on the back of the kid’s neck. “Said I like ya, so I’m gonna fuck ya. Show you what a real alpha is all about.”

The kid tensed underneath him as Victor rocked his hips forward, his erection bumping against the kid’s ass. “I’ll take you back t’ the bordello,” Evan’s voice was calm, at odds with the tautness in which he held his body. “Have one of th’ girls. I’ll pay.”

Victor ran his hands down Evan’s back. “Mmmm, temptin’ but I gotta say no, kid. Watchin’ ya kill got me all wound up an’ when I get wound up, I gotta get me some release and fast.”

Evan was quiet as the larger man’s hands went to the waistband of his trousers and began easing them down slowly, but his breathing became harsher, louder.

When the kid’s pants were around his knees, Victor leaned forward and licked the back of Evan’s neck again, making him shudder. One hand kneaded the surprisingly plump flesh of Evan’s ass as the other worked its way under the kid’s shirt.

Victor’s hand encountered something unfamiliar and he jerked his hand back. “What th’ fuck?” he growled and yanked the kid’s shirt up, ripping it along the seams. Evan growled.

It looked and felt like cloth, the kind a doctor would use for binding wounds. Victor’s fingers followed it around to Evan’s front and the kid bucked underneath him.

“Stop,” Evan hissed. “Jus’ fuck me an’ get it over with.”

“Not so fast, kid,” Victor murmured as his fingers stroked the fabric.

He could feel the kid getting agitated. Evan did not want Victor touching the binding and that made him even more curious. He hooked a claw under the edge and pulled up, tearing the fabric.

“Don’t,” Evan squirmed under Victor, managing to dislodge the claw. “Jus’ leave it, okay?”

He traced one hand to the small of Evan’s back, over the hill of his ass, down to the apex of the kid’s thighs…

Victor hissed when he discovered what Evan had been hiding. “You clever little shit,” he growled. “You’re a woman!”

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