Brockton Bay, December 26th, 10:30 AM
Tags: Humiliation, denial, delirium, mindbreak, minor size difference, exhibitionism
Lars paused at the edge of the door, watching the 7 foot wolf woman lying on the couch in Brad's apartment.
Now, she was an animal. A freak of nature. What red-blooded American man would look at something with a dog's face and think "I want to fuck that." It's unnatural. Millions of years of evolution guides the human mind to want to mate with an attractive woman of their own species. That's nature. Science, even. But the fact is, you look at a creature like that, you look at the muscles, the bountiful bosom, the pillowy rear just filling out her pants the way a beer fills a tall glass.
So sometimes, nature screws up. Hey, Lars was only human. Millions of years of evolution stirred in his pants.
He shook himself from his stupor and let himself in. The Wolf lady was just staring at him with those big ol' baby blues, cold as ice.
He ran his fingers across his brown peach-fuzz. Made him look like a military man, someone with discipline. Loyal. Not bald, though. That had connotations in this town. Lips felt dry? Give 'em a little lick. Don't want to stumble over your words when making first impressions.
"Hey, uh, pretty lady. Didn't know Brad had a girl over. Also didn't know that he had a thing for…"
Shit. He didn't think this through. There was no good ending to that sentence. He didn't know anything about this woman other than presumably she and Brad were a thing. Females were already temperamental creatures, and now he was facing one that was literally half animal.
Keep it light. Make yourself look dumb. Ladies love a dumbass; it makes them feel like they're in control. Like you're dependent on them.
"...tall women."
Ok, maybe not that dumb. Play it off like a joke. Ladies love a jokester.
Lars gave a laugh, no, a chuckle. Throaty, but not too intense, make it clear you're defusing the situation rather than laughing at your own joke.
The wolf lady raised an eyebrow. What did that mean? Was she impressed, was she not impressed? Too ambiguous. Need to probe further. Also find out if she's actually Brad's girl or not. Where was Brad?
Ah, the shower was running in the apartment. That would be Brad. Obviously got up to sexy-times last night and was taking the time to get clean.
Right, so Brad was into animal people. That's fine, everyone takes little dips outside the pool. Hell, he was no stranger to a tryst with a beautiful chocolate babe, sometimes even a little oriental. Variety was the spice of life.
Of course, one uses discretion in those cases. Lars certainly didn't use his real name when he went down to the Docks and supped deep on the lotus nectar of those ABB girls. He absolutely wouldn't take any of them back to his apartment. Brad really must have been thinking with a brain-damaged dick to just lead something like this to his own doorstep.
Oh, she was still staring at him. Come on, react. Make a move. Stop staring at me like that. See, this was why Lars sometimes didn't like women. They never just told you what you were doing wrong. They expected you to pick up on the signs. Was it any wonder why men like him took to tried and true methods?
Alright, she's obviously looking for vulnerability. The analyzing gaze, the dismissive posture, arms crossed on the couch, glancing back at the history documentary. Huh, the Roman Empire. Brad must have put it on.
She wants vulnerability? Time to show some, then.
"Ah, listen, M'am," She didn't like Ma'm. See the flinch? Start the sentence over again.
Lars took a deep breath and put his hands up in a placating gesture. "I think we got off on the wrong foot. I'm Lars, I'm a friend of Brad's, I was just stopping by to give him a Christmas present and go bar hopping later." He indicated the package under his arm, blue and patterned with silver bones.
He thought it looked cool, but apparently it was for pets. Who even wraps presents for a pet?
Oh, she was actually smiling. Wait, don't dogs smile when they're angry? Something about baring teeth.
"A present, huh? She said, with undisguised curiosity. "Mind if I take a look?"
He narrowed his eyes. His power began to stretch, growing tight like a drum. In an instant, he felt the nearby atmosphere change from his normal, foggy awareness to a sharp, clear one. The movement of air currents revealed themselves to him. He felt the heat of the shower in the bathroom cause the air to rise, the water vapor changing the texture ever so slightly. He took a small portion of the air just outside the shower door and brought it to his nose in a small stream. Yep, that was Brad's shampoo. He didn't smell the conditioner yet, which means he had just started his hair care routine. Brad took a lot of pride in that.
Which meant Lars had some time. He gave his most innocent smile, walked past the door to the bedroom, and sat down on the couch across from the nameless wolf lady. God, those tits didn't jiggle at all when he sat down. They must be firm.
"Well, Brad's a big history buff, likes all those old empires and war stories, so I got him this new one about, like, the influence of the roman religion on their war campaigns and policy."
She looked at the present with naked curiosity. What, was she trying to get gift tips from him? Lady, Brad isn't going to go steady with you. People in the Empire don't get to go steady with people outside it, and you're absolutely not getting in looking like that.
"Could, I.. see it?" she asked.
Ah, Lars, you dumb fuck. You never could say no to a woman you just met.
"Sure, but be careful."
He handed the book over to her, and watched as she studied one of the black claws on her fingertips. Deciding it was good enough, she slowly slipped it inside the seam on the wrapping paper, pulling up the tape without any rips, before pulling back and revealing the contents.
"MEET THE NEW GODS: SAME AS THE OLD GODS", read the title, with the subtitle:
"THE DICHOTOMY OF CAPE CULTURE AND ROMAN POLYTHEISM AND THEIR IMPACT ON POLICY AND POLITICS" below.
"I, uh, even got the author, Stella Kessler, to sign it. It's one the inside cover, there- yeah, right there. Cool, huh?"
The yet-to-introduce-herself wolf woman stared at the book, reading the little slipcover summary and the reviews on the back. Oh, jeeze, she was more interested in the book than poor old Lars, huh? Maybe Brad had found a kindred spirit. Poor bastard. You know they'd just end up killing each other.
"You should, uh, really, uh, wrap that up and… look, just hand it back to me, alright."
Lars watched as she carefully folded up the wrapping paper and put it on the little glass table on the end of the couch, where an empty beer glass was hanging out on a coaster.
"Lars," she said, with an uncomfortable amount of familiarity. "This is a really, really, good gift."
"I, uh, thank you?" What was happening? Was she flattering him? Maybe she was a sensitive type. Easily moved by the bonds between men. Maybe she'd be up for a threesome? Wait, no, 2 dudes and one chick was way too gay, in a mathematical sense. Plus, it was like you were taking turns cucking each other. Best to just wait for the relationship to fall apart and try to squeeze in.
"Lars, you need to leave. Now."
Wait, she was ordering him around now. He had gone too vulnerable. Time to dial it back. He angled his body towards her, knees apart, one hand resting across the top of the couch while he pointed firmly at the wolf with the other.
"Listen, lady-" Whoops, didn't like lady either. Well, if she doesn't want to be called stuff she doesn't like she should give her name. "I'm just going to talk to Brad, give him his gift, and leave, ok? I don't know exactly what is going on between the two of you," but I have a pretty good idea. "But whatever it is doesn't give you the right to boss me around-"
"Lars, put your fucking macho-man pride bullshit away for a second and listen to me," she said, her sharp teeth gritting, leaning in close enough that she went from enticingly tall to looming. "I am Brad."
Lars stared at the face of this creature in front of him, claiming to be Brad. His eyes gazed downwards towards the breasts of said creature, straining against a black tank top. Finally, his eyes met its own again.
"What?"
"Lars," it said again. "There is a body-controlling freak with shapeshifting powers in the bathroom right now, and if you don't leave right now, he's going to do to you what he did to me."
Lars felt his power tighten again, the air around him turning almost solid, like thousands upon thousands of strings stretching to their limit.
The shower was still going, but there was no one in it. He felt the shape of someone behind him. On instinct, he began drawing together the surrounding air into a long over the front of his fist. One of his signature "claws". Its edges began to bend the light as it filled with more and more air.
He shot forward, away from the figure behind him, standing at the side of the creature claiming to be Brad. It was large enough to provide some cover.
Standing between him and the door was a man, dripping water and wearing nothing but a bathrobe and a strange-looking mask. It was white, covering his whole face, and entirely featureless except the eyes and 2 notches on the left side.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Stormtiger," the man said, "but I'm not you, so you might as well go ahead."
Lars could smell a trap a mile away. Obviously he wanted to be attacked. But why? He glanced back at the wolf thing he was almost hiding behind. There was… concern, there. In her eyes.
"He really had no chance, Brad, I could hear him the moment he entered the building. His power sounds like an alto sax, by the way."
Lars's power either sounded like a quiet hiss or a large explosion. God knows what he was talking about.
His claw had drawn all the air it could hold. From across the room it would be nigh-invisible. At this point, he could detonate it like a shaped charge, blowing this weirdo off his feet and making a break for it. If what the wolf said was true, he needed to contact the Empire.
Said freak began to speak again. "If you want to fight me, you should know the stakes. If I win, I'm not going to kill you. I, Vice, will take you, your body, your power, and your will." He said his own name as if he expected it to be accompanied by a crash of thunder, or perhaps a musical cue.
He gestured to the wolf. "Like Brad here. Although she goes by Junkyard Dog now, doesn't she?"
The creature, who Lars was actually starting to believe was Brad, growled.
"Lars, you need to leave," she said again.
He figured he had a few options. He could make another claw, throw it behind him to break the glass door that led out onto the balcony. Detonate his fully charged claw forwards to blow this sicko off his feet. Then he could just glide over to the next apartment building and he'd be home free. Or drop below and grab his motorcycle. Either way he risked people seeing him without his mask, but that was a minor concern.
"Hold on, Brad. Lars doesn't know the full extent of the stakes yet. If he wins, and I die or am forced to retreat, he saves poor little Brad."
Lars considered. He looked over at Brad's face, his -or was it her- eyes looking at him with concern. She shook her head slightly. "Go, you moron." she whispered. Her eyes looked sort of… despairing.
Max had always talked about the power of Gesellschaft, the Empire's main backers out in the "Fatherland". Said that they had a group of tinkers out in the Black Forest, the Ahnenerbe, making the new master race and raising the dead, all that shit. They might be able to fix whatever this sick freak did to her.
He couldn't just give up.
Shit, he needed more information. Or at least time to plan. An idea struck him, which could either buy him a few seconds or a few minutes, depending. If there was ever a time to exude confidence, it was now.
He straightened up, and let go of the charged claw from his hand. No, he didn't get rid of it. That would be stupid. But he "untethered" it from his hand and let it float freely, manipulating it with his power instead of his hands, having it glide behind him as he walked forward. He just needed to make sure it didn't bump into anything, revealing his gambit. He mimed placing one of his hands in his back pocket, but instead began creating another claw just behind his leg, out of Vice's sight.
He shrugged with his free hand. "I mean, do we have to fight?" A stupid question, but it bought him a valuable few seconds as he built power in the other claw. The more of these he could make, the better. This guy seemed like a talker. The dramatic type. Best keep him talking.
"I mean, you could just surrender. It'd be entirely welcome, and I'd give you input on the design process!" Yep, the guy loved the sound of his own voice.
Lars responded with as polite a smile he could manage. Another claw, full to the brim, untethered itself from his hand and began to float invisibly behind him in a slow orbit. Keep it on the down-low.
"What I mean is, there's no reason to beat each other up and ruin Brad's apartment." He glanced over to the tenant in question and saw her covering her face with both hand-paw things in apparent mortification.
"Lars what the fuck are you doing?" she whispered, only audible because of the way he was using his power to enhance his hearing. Trying to save you, dipshit.
He honestly didn't understand why she expected him to run. Sheesh, they've been friends for almost 10 years, she could show a little faith. Wait, was she still a he? Whatever, he'd ask her later.
Vice leaned against the countertop at the edge of the little kitchen area. "So if you're not surrendering, then what exactly are you proposing?"
Another claw joined the others in a growing armory behind him. Lars felt his ears pop from the rapidly lowering air pressure in the room. There wasn't enough time for it to equalize properly, with how fast he was doing this. He needed a little more time.
"A contest, of sorts. A game, even."
Vice tapped his fingers against the counter. "I'm listening."
Good. Keep listening. "You talked about stakes earlier, right?" Lars walked slowly over to the end table, moving in front of Brad, now. He opened up the drawer and rooted around inside. If he remembered correctly, there should be… there. A deck of playing cards.
"How about some poker?"
Vice turned about to be amenable to poker, with one caveat. Vice wanted to "up the stakes" even more by making it strip poker.
Lars almost said no, before he realized that he had Vice at a major disadvantage. Vice was only wearing, as far as he could tell, a bathrobe, slippers, and boxers. Meanwhile, Lars, dressed like an actual human being, had his pants, shoes, shirt, and underwear. A slight advantage, but one nonetheless.
Which meant that the game was meaningless, and neither of them were planning on honoring it. Why would Vice agree to a game where he started at a loss when he held all of the actual cards, I.E. Brad's body, unless he didn't care about the outcome at all. So, obviously, they were both setting up for something. The question was, what was his real game? He might have a reason to stall, some setup for his own power. He glanced at Brad, towards the back of the apartment on the couch. When shit popped off, he could grab her, blast open the window-
No, that wouldn't work. His power could barely support his own weight, much less 300-plus pounds of pure whatever-the-fuck Brad was. They'd leap out and immediately fall 6 stories. He might be able to cushion the landing a bit, but they'd be vulnerable in the air if the opening salvo didn't eliminate Vice off the bat.
No, the best bet was to get enough firepower together to blow him out the apartment, into the next, and out the opposite window. And that would take a lot.
Lars sat down at the table. His back was towards the window, and Vice's was towards the door. The perfect angle. He finished charging another claw and let it join the others. There were 6 of them now, and it was taking a small amount of focus just to make sure they didn't run into the walls or each other.
"Well, Lars, shall we begin?" says Vice, cracking open the deck. "You can deal, if you want."
It was plain to see he didn't care at all. Pure, unearned confidence. This game was literally just a game to him and nothing more.
Of course, there was the possibility that he possessed some kind of power that let him cheat at cards, but he was obviously a wet tinker of some kind, or some sort of biological striker perhaps. Could he give himself X-ray vision of some kind? Or detect the cards by scent, somehow? Lars couldn't smell anything out of the ordinary, and his own nose was no slouch.
"I'll deal," Lars responded. The deck looked fine. Smelled fine, even. Lars took it and shuffled, before dealing 5 to each of them. His powers weren't that useful to cheat; you can't determine a card by smell or sounds unless you fix them ahead of time with pheromones or something.
Lars didn't like his chances, either in the game or the actual battle that would happen after. Hookwolf was the Empire's strongest frontline cape besides the twins, and he doubted Brad would gamble his body on a poker game. There would have been a brawl, one that Vice had somehow won.
Best bet, knock him out of the god damn building and make a break for it. Come back with a good old fashioned lynch mob.
Lars looked at his hand.
Two Pair. He discarded the odd card out and got a full house.
He didn't let himself smile. Keep it cool. Let's see how much your rules are worth.
Lars was down his shirt, pants, and shoes, leaving just his tighty whities. A single hand and he was out. But that was fine, for two reasons.
First, Vice was down to just his boxer shorts, his weirdly stringy physique on display. He didn't seem to qualify his mask as a piece of clothing, which meant it was now sudden death. Fortunately, Lars's current hand was a straight, aces-high.
Second, Lars had managed to create 32 claws which were now scattered around the room, floating slowly. At a certain point he had to stop making them, any more would risk bringing the building down. Right now he created two "rings" of claws, 16 each, one surrounding the door, the others closer to the table. Those would blast him towards the door, where the other ring would send him flying through the building. A quick one-two of explosions. He was ready.
Still, the game itself was tense. Lars' luck after the first hand had run out, and Vice was entirely unreadable. Not in the sense of having a good poker face (The mask handled that.) No, the issue was Vice couldn't fucking sit still to save his life. The first hand had him nodding his head to a beat only he seemed able to hear (Three of a kind), the second hand had him bouncing his leg over and over (Flush), and on the third hand he had started dancing in his chair (Complete garbage.) If it had been a longer game, Lars might have been able to keep track of his tells, but it was like Vice developed a new nervous tic during every hand. Completely useless.
In the end, it just came down to luck.
"Aces-high," Lars declared, setting his hand on the table.
The Straight hand stared Vice in the face, and he stared back with only the slightest tilt of his head. The stillest he had been through the whole game.
Lars had him.
And then, without a word, Vice laid out a heart flush in front of him.
That was fine, Lars still had him. However bullshit it was. He stood up and gave his best imitation of grace.
"Well," he said through gritted teeth, "good game. I suppose this means I'm, ahem, yours, now?"
"As soon as you remove your last piece of clothing, then yeah, we can begin," came the response. Vice's voice had a faint undercurrent of amusement and disbelief, as if he also couldn't understand how he'd won.
Lars took a step back and raised his hands, ignoring the chill on his bare skin. He heard Brad stand up from the couch behind him. A smile crossed his face. He had him.
"You want these undies? Come and take them from me."
Vice just shrugged, and with a casual slowness, reached beneath the table and began taking off his own undergarments. The smile on Lars's face faltered as he averted his eyes. Come on, you freak, just stand up. Raise your center of gravity. Stand tall, you dramatic bitch.
"Lars," he said, tossing his boxers off into the bedroom. "If you plan on being a sore loser, then know this; I can absolutely be a sore winner."
The claws moved into position. They were close enough to the self-proclaimed supervillain to be visible to him, if he only took a second to take his eyes off Lars.
Now or never.
"Oh, you're gonna be sore alright," he fired back. His hands began to sweat. The adrenaline began to kick in.
Now or never.
He heard Brad coming up behind him, her footsteps heavy as she ran forward. She was yelling. "Lars, dont-"
Lars turned back to look, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Vice stand to his full height.
Now.
16 claws of compressed air, all pointed at Vice in a loose ring, went off at once. Time seemed to slow as the atmosphere distorted with the force, a blast wave traveling far faster than the eye could really see.
It looked like an invisible bubble had popped. It sounded like the world was ending.
The back half of the table exploded. A vase on a nearby table shattered, and the light fixture above almost turned inside out as it shot towards the ceiling.
Vice flew backwards in slow motion, adrenaline bringing everything into a stark clarity. He watched him shoot backwards towards the door, blown off his feet towards the second ring of claws, ready and waiting. Lars's intense focus was suddenly interrupted by a sharp, immediate pain in his leg, like it was being pulled off.
Lars glanced down in this moment of frozen time, and saw that there was a loop of steel wire extending out of Vice's foot, its form smeared and blurred by an effect identical to Brad's power. The loop wrapped around Lars' own foot, connecting the two of them. Something he might have seen if he wasn't so adamantly avoiding looking at Vice's dick.
Time almost seemed to stop entirely, as if God himself had put everything on hold while he scribbled on a whiteboard in heaven's backstage, furiously going over his calculations. Trying desperately to figure out how this was all going to go down.
The next split second was filled with agony, forcing him to lose focus on the other set of claws, which immediately released their payloads, the power keeping them solid having disappeared.
Lars blacked out before he could even hit the wall.
When Lars woke up, he was only aware of two things; an omnipresent pain, and the gentle rumble of a car engine.
He was resting in the back seat of a beat up old honda. He wasn't aware of this, as it was not one of the previous two points, but it was true nonetheless.
The next thing he became aware of was the sounds of talking from the front seat, an impossible distance away.
"Can't you finish healing him?"
"Brad, I'm sorry, I really am, but I sort of ran through the rest of our stock of spare parts putting myself back together after that little stunt. And healing those others caught in the blast. Not to mention I have no idea where the fridge full of our ill-gotten gains went afterwards. Shit might be the ocean by now."
"I fucking told him to run."
"I know, and for a man with powers that lets him hear good, he has a major listening problem. Point being, I'm going full penalty round on his ass. An example will be made."
"Vice, don't torture him. You already have him, you don't need-"
"I didn't say jack squat or diddly shit about torture. You know my deal. Why give him pain when I can subject him to some truly horrible pleasures?"
There is a sound almost like a dog whining from the passenger seat.
"So are we going to see Parian again, you know, once you put an 'aesthetic' together?"
"Wow, someone's eager. No. Nobody's seeing Parian until you and I sort some shit out regarding your little sex-capade last night."
"You said you weren't jealous."
"Not jealous, just feeling like there was a little miscommunication between us."
"What mis- oh, shit, he's awake."
"Oh, whoops, hold on."
And then Lars is asleep again, the pain taken away with a single touch.
Brockton Bay, December 26th, 5:01 PM
When Lars awoke again, he was laying on the couch in his own apartment, the exposed brick and mortar of his loft stretching above him almost 20 feet. His place had been an old factory building (of which there was a surplus), converted to trendy apartments by overly optimistic real estate firms. Place was expensive, but being an empire cape paid well. Plus, it was large, and most of the other apartments on the floor were empty. He could let his power spread out without eavesdropping on vapid gossip or angry tenants.
He took in the situation. Nothing hurt, per say, but some things felt off. And other things felt missing.
He glanced down at himself and saw that where his right foot should be, was only a stump of raw, blistered skin. Strange dents seemed to litter his body, missing bits carved away and healed. His left arm didn't look like it was bent in the correct way.
He turned his head, still feeling stiff, to look around. There was some nature documentary on the TV, casting its glow over him in the dark room. The state of his body along with the lack of pain made him feel like he was dreaming. The senses his power granted him extended through the room. He heard something large breathing in the recliner behind the sofa. He craned his head over the armrest and saw Brad, sitting with her eyes gleaming, like some sort of big-breasted sleep paralysis demon. She was reading the book Lars had gotten for her, which was nice, he supposed.
His senses continued to expand until they reached his kitchen, where he smelled someone cooking something. A Hungry Lad high protein TV dinner, one of his favorites. He tuned his power in like a radio station and heard Vice muttering to himself right next to the humming sound of the fridge.
"Seriously, does he have anything other than microwave meals and milk?" he said under his breath. Fuck you, cooking is hard.
Lars made a small grunt. Brad grunted back. Lovely. Communication established. Maybe he was still a man under all that titty.
He took a deep breath. He felt like one of his lungs was bigger than the other, somehow. Vice making do with limited resources, he supposed. He was honestly impressed how much of him was left after getting thrown through an apartment building by his leg.
He released the breath with a whisper. "I'm sorry."
"For what, Lars. You're going to need to be more specific."
Alright, she was angry for some reason. Why? He thought back. Probably for not saving her, not seeing the trap at the last moment. It was an obvious trap, in retrospect. He should have seen it coming, or hell, heard it coming. But he got caught up in the big play. The big turnaround where he revealed his hand, his actual hand, and took care of business. God, he was stupid. He didn't even really know what he was fighting.
"I'm sorry I'm such an idiot."
"Again, you're gonna need to be more specific." God, it was like arguing with an angry date. Was the passive aggressiveness just something you developed with exposure to estrogen?
"I took a stupid risk, and It didn't pan out. I should have just fought him to begin with."
"Christ, Vice was right, you really hear everything and listen to nothing."
"What, you're taking his side now?"
"Lars, I said over and over again, you should have run. If you had just leapt the window, gotten backup from the very beginning instead of trying to be fucking clever and macho, you could have gotten out of this mess."
"Brad, I was trying to save you."
"You blew up my fucking apartment!"
"You wouldn't have given up your apartment to be free of whatever fucking hold he has on you?"
"If you had just run to begin with then you would get another chance and I would still have an apartment." She said, avoiding the question.
Lars avoided asking. He knew she wasn't able to attack Vice for some reason, otherwise she would have done it. Was it just control of her actions, or did he have hold on her mind somehow?
"So what happens now?"
He heard her shut her book and take a deep breath. "Now, he wanders over, and turns you into some kind of monster or animal woman, or whatever. Makes a whole show of it."
Lars nodded. That was about what he had figured. He didn't see any lab equipment, so presumably Vice didn't need any.
"And then he fucks you."
"Oh." That was also about what Lars had figured.
"Yeah. Oh."
They both lapsed into silence.
"He did that to you, then?" Every part of him screamed that it was a horrible question, but being tactful wasn't getting him anywhere. He managed to prop himself up enough to look at her. He imagined Vice leaning over her, having his way with her. He tried to discard the thought, but it kept coming back.
"He did, on the first night, while he was making me… like this. But not since."
Brad's breath was heavy, almost heaving, like she was having trouble keeping her self-control. There was a reddish color on her cheeks, a blush of what had to be rage somehow visible through her fur. God, what had she gone through, to make even the mention of it create such a reaction?
"Did it hurt?" Lars asked.
She looked away from him, the redness on her face only increasing. Rage, or something else?
He felt a pit form in his gut. That's going to be me, soon. Made into some Amazonian tiger lady for some pervert's sick pleasure.
"Listen, I'm sorry, okay? I was an idiot. I should have ran, I should have listened to you, I shouldn't have tried putting the moves on you-"
"Wait, that was you putting the moves on me?"
Lars laughed, and felt something inside him fall apart. Not in the metaphorical sense. There was a sensation of something falling out of place, like some part of his throat had come undone. A bone getting in the way, or a muscle failing to hold something open. He began to choke.
"Oh, shit- Vice! He's awake and he's not breathing right!" Brad yelled.
He heard Vice drop something in the kitchen and speed over to them. Lars could hear his legs making horrible wet noises as they stretched to allow for longer strides. Before he knew it, Vice's hands were on his neck, and he could breathe right again.
"Well now, good to see you awake. I put together some extra material from your stash of horrible microwave dinners."
Lars coughed. "Do you need to fucking insult me while you have your hand around my throat?"
"Yes, because I am actually extremely mad with you."
"Fuck you."
"Yes indeed. Because of your little stunt, we're gonna go for broke on this one. I'm going full Michelangelo. Addition through subtraction. But first!"
As Lars tried to figure out what the hell he means by "Addition through subtraction" meant, Vice plunged his fingers into the back of his head.
He begins to writhe on the couch, attempting to call his power to stab Vice, or at least shove him away, when suddenly-
Lars is laying down on a flat plane of some substance that feels like flesh and looks like crystal. As he lays there, he cannot see the ground beneath him, but he knows it is there the same way he knows where his own arm is. It is a part of him, somehow. The moon hangs high in the sky, waiting. Behind him, Lars sees a strange silhouette in the shape of a large, wolf-like woman, sitting down in an invisible chair, looking at a book that isn't there. Through the silhouette, Lars can see great spires of shifting metals that fold into themselves and unfold into new shapes.
The surface below him cracks and splinters like dry ground, and each splintered section begins to get farther and farther away from one another until Lars is floating above a vast network of crystalline canyons that fill with air. Sounds and smells rush through these newly open passageways in the flesh, traveling to destinations off the horizon at blinding speeds. More and more of the atmosphere enters into these passages, going deep underneath. It is like the whole planet is breathing and thinking at the same time, an atmospheric computer of impossible size.
Suddenly, the moon above splits open, and from the cracks, pink helical chains emerge and begin to rain down on the crystalline canyons below, finding purchase and tearing the canyons open wider until they reveal some strange glowing pit that Lars cannot see into. One chain sets a course, flies down through this opening, and upon impact-
Lars wakes up, and knows, somehow, that it's over.
"You cannot harm me, or any other member of my harem." The voice is absolute, and he immediately knows who it belongs to. Vice.
"What the fuck was that-"
"In order," Vice interrupts, "Your body, your power, your will." He indicates himself with his thumb. "Mine." His voice is filled with a venomous glee.
Lars chokes a little bit more. "Why the fuck are you angry? You won. You got one over on me. You fucked me up."
Vice glares at him like he's stupid for even asking the question. "Because you suggested the poker game and then decided you wanted to fight anyway?"
He couldn't be serious. "I fucking saw you playing, you weren't worried about the outcome of the game at all. We both knew that was just bullshit theatrics. Don't fucking pretend."
"I wasn't worried about the outcome of the game, dumbass, because even if you won I would have just come back some other time and beaten you at whatever stakes you set."
There was no way. There was absolutely no way.
"Why the fuck are you lying," Lars squeezed out, finally. "You had no reason to follow through. No reason to leave. It would have come to blows."
"You're gonna come to blow, alright." Vice said. "And I thought the whole point of the poker game was to stop that from happening? Why even suggest it?"
"So I could fucking trap you with the fuckin- the fucking, the god damn explosion! I set it up! You moron. You fucking idiot. If you weren't going to fight then what was with the fucking snare trap? How were you using Hookwolf's power?"
Vice's anger seemed to be shifting into some kind of annoyed boredom, as he started checking under his fingernails for dirt, not even making eye contact. "Boy, you Empire folk sure are an inquisitive bunch, aren't you? Always asking questions," he said, glancing back at Brad. "When I say I have your power, I mean it. I also have Junkyard Dog's as well. I made the snare because I thought you were going to run, not blow up the fucking apartment."
"Yeah Lars, he thought you would run. Like a smart person," Brad chimed in.
"Who's fucking side are you on-" Lars yelled. "You know what? Nevermind. I'm done, turn me into your fucking muscly whore like Brad over there. I don't fucking care anymore." There was just no winning here, it seemed.
"Fuck you too, moron," Brad quipped. What the fuck did she want from him? He tried his best.
Vice leaned in over the couch. "There's that listening problem again. I already told you, I'm going to be a very sore winner about this. You're not going to be my whore, nor concubine."
He rustled through the pocket on his big jacket until he pulled out an oversized collar with a bell on it, wrapped in paper patterned with blue and silver bones.
"I was thinking more like a pet."
"Let's just get into it," he says, "top to bottom this time."
Lars starts to protest in panic, to roll off the couch, do anything. But vice sits down on what's left of his legs. "Wait, what the fuck do you mean, pet-"
Vice's hands wrapped around his head, and he felt his own skull give like wet clay, and he was suddenly plunged into darkness and silence. There was nothing but the sensation of Vice running his fingers over his face, the skull charging, moving outwards, nostrils enlarging, teeth growing sharper. His lower body still wasn't responding correctly at all.
He felt his eyes swell slightly, growing larger, the sockets around them deforming to make room for them. He blinked and then he went from darkness to blinding light, the colors of everything in the room seeming to attack his retinas directly. Vice's bone-white mask above him stood out most of all, seeming to almost glow.
"Whoops, over-tuned that a little, hold on."
Vice reached his fingers to the sides of Lars head, which somehow felt farther away from each other. His face had been widened, making room for his new muzzle and larger eyes. His fingers reached around and then sank into Lars' face, reaching behind his eyeballs. There was a dull twisting sensation, and then the colors in the room seemed to go back to normal.
"There we go."
Lars expected some kind of vat, or an injection, or even that Vice would knock him unconscious and he would simply wake up like Brad. This was all so much worse. Feeling his body come apart and break in small ways like this, becoming aware of each individual body part as it changed and mutated. He felt himself start to yell, but couldn't hear it. There was just a rumbling in his bones as the sound traveled through them.
Vice's hands shot down to his throat, and he felt his vocal chords start to stretch and contract, changing the quality of the vibration.
He squirmed in futility as Vice's fingers plunged into his ears and began to drag them upwards to the top of his head. The cartilage in them stretched out, forming triangular shapes that began to flick and twitch as neurons hooked themselves into brand new muscles.
From Lars' perspective, there was a loud popping noise, and then the silence was replaced by a loud mewling, high pitched and scratchy, like an angry cat squirming in its owner's arms. Vice didn't seem to react to the sound at all, simply humming along as his arms traveled below Lars' neck. On instinct, Lars reached out his power, trying to find the source of the noise. He felt it, the waves radiating outwards from the couch.
Oh god, he thought. That's me.
As soon as he shut his mouth, the mewling ceased.
Vice reached Lars' chest and began to squeeze and knead, and he heard himself squeak as Vice seemed to compress the flesh downwards.
Warmth began to bloom from the site as fur, striped with black and orange, spread downwards. Vice was doing slow circles around the nipples, and with each rotation, Lars' pectorals shrank, the flesh on top fattening slightly, growing more and more sensitive. It was like the most intense massage he's ever received, everything growing loose, a pleasant tingling sensation across his upper body. The supervillian's sculpting began to press deeper, and deeper, until Lars felt him back press down into the couch cushions.
Fur had already spread down his arms, until he felt his palms swell with thick black pads, his fingernails replaced by little black claws. The pressure on his chest was almost suffocating, and with desperation he flung his arms upwards towards Vice's face, even if he knew deep in his heart they would stop before getting there.
His arms didn't even do that. They didn't even reach. Vice had compressed them, collapsed them, his muscles shrunk, his bones shortened as he felt his body becoming smaller, losing more of himself than was already missing.
"What the fuck are you doing to me?" he shouted. His voice had shot from a growling baritone all the way to a scratchy soprano. He didn't just sound unabashedly feminine, he sounded young. What would be a yell of horror became an almost whiny squeal of naked embarrassment. He felt his face flush hard, the heat going across his body seeming to concentrate in his cheeks until he felt they would burst into flames. He had fur there, right? Vice couldn't see that?
"Someone's heated up." Vice said. Fuck. His teeth gritted together as he felt his shame reach a fever pitch.
Vice's hands continued down until they squeezed the sides of the stomach, pushing muscle and fat downwards towards the hips like a perverted tube of toothpaste.
"I," he continued, "am making you nice and travel-sized. Compact, even." His hands skittered their way back up to Lars' chest like dancing spiders, before tweaking his newly sensitive nipples under the fur. "Behold! A new member of the itty bitty kitty titty committee! Very aerodynamic."
Lars shivered and squirmed beneath Vice's weight. His hands traveled lower again, his thighs shrinking and then filling back out proportionally as the fur and warmth spread downwards towards his feet.
He felt like there was too much blood in his body now, and not enough space for it all to go. The flush on his cheeks increased. This was worse than excruciating. Worse than even painful. It was humiliating. Abject humiliation.
And the worst part? Lars had a boner right now. A big one. With a combination of the high blood pressure from his full-body shrinkage and the constant pressure from Vice's body on top of him, combined with the warmth, he was getting involuntarily horny. It throbbed as Vice rubbed down his feet, shortening and widening them as paws that he could only describe as cute formed themselves with an extremely intense tickling sensation. He found himself laughing involuntarily, only to almost bite his own tongue off, startled. What came out was an almost girlish giggle.
Vice finished up with the other foot, and Lars couldn't help himself. "He-he-he-he-he!"
They both paused, making eye contact, Vice sitting down by Lars's feet, with Lars himself trying to shove himself backwards into the armrest of the couch.
Between them sat Lars' boner, still twitching from the full-body stimulation. His heart began to beat even faster, as the possibility occurred to him that he would cum from this before Vice even fucked him. God, what the fuck would that ay about him? That a man running his hands up and down his body had brought him to orgasm. That it hadn't hurt. That he'd enjo-
Vice brough himself forward, and Lars noticed now that he stood much, much taller than his own body. He loomed now. His hand reached over to Lars' cock, and it twitched, leaking a slight amount of pre. Slowly, ever so slowly, he took one finger, and pressed it down on the tip. Lars felt his hips buck involuntarily.
Please. No. Don't cum. Don't cum. Don't cum. I don't want to be a faggot. Don't cum.
Keeping his finger pressed down on the tip of the cock, just below the hole, Vice leaned over the whole of Lars' body, until the mask was right next to his triangular tiger ears. Lars could feel him breathing, causing his ears to twitch and try to rotate to avoid the currents of air.
And then he spoke. "Don't Cum."
And then he plunged his finger downwards and Lars' dick inverted in a split second. There was an impossible sensation of pleasure, not the release of orgasm, but almost like a sexual suffocation. Lars' squirming became full on bucking and she wrapped her new opening over Vice's finger, trying to get some form of relief. The warmth in her cheeks flared. The warmth in her loins? That one felt like she had reached some sort of smoking point, and if she got any hotter, it would simply explode into flames. She continued to buck against the finger, hips chasing it as Vice brought the digit away.
"Pets only get to cum when I do." The voice was filled with the exact same unbreakable confidence Vice had at the poker game, but now Lars believed what he was saying. She could tell that what he said was the truth and nothing but. It brooked no doubts.
"Turn over," he said. The command didn't have the same authority behind it as the previous ones, but she compiled anyway. She couldn't take this much longer. Anything to get this over with faster, anything to be done.
She rested herself flat against the couch, feeling her new sex brush the softness of the cushions. She tried to brush against it again, feeding the warmth below, desperate for release, but her body stopped itself without her input. She tried again, her hips driving downwards, when suddenly they seemed to yank themselves to a stop just before contact, the only sensation she felt being a slight breeze against her folds from the movement. She whimpered.
Don't cum.
As she brought her hips back again for another attempt, she felt her tailbone connect with something, something that seemed to attach to her spine, she tried to shake it off and the entire thing moved. A tail, striped like the rest of her. She arched herself forward, bringing her head up in alarm, when suddenly she saw over the couch cushions.
Brad was there. Brad was right there. Sitting in her own armchair, reading the book Lars had given him- given her- given- FUCK! SHE WAS RIGHT THERE THE WHOLE TIME. Lars was so wrapped up in what was happening to her, she had forgotten. She had seen everything. Heard everything. The meaning, the whining, the way she started to buck her hips. She knew. Was this what it was like for her? No, Brad would have fought. He would have told Vice to fuck off every step of the way, wouldn't he? Not like Lars. Mortification burrowed deep into her before settling like a block of charcoal. Brad would never look the same way at her again, knowing the way she succumbed.
Lars just stared at her as Vice began to do something to her shoulder blades. Eventually, she looked up from the book, made eye contact, and looked away, shame in her own blue eyes.
No. She didn't. She couldn't have.
"B-brad," Lars stuttered, "Y-you enjoyed this, d-didn't you." She could barely keep her thoughts straight, much less her words. Anger, humiliation, arousal. All fighting to come to the surface of the suffocating feelings roiling inside her.
Brad just buried her long wolfy nose deeper into the book. Lars's back spasmed, half with anger and half with the sensation of two long things connecting to her back.
Her new wings flared, bright orange feathers snapping to attention. "You fucking acted tough! You acted so smart and so cool! Tried to get me to run. So you could have him all to yourself, you slut." Her hips bucked again, new wings flapping and blowing magazines off the coffee table. She felt delirious now, like the inability to come was somehow translated into an inability to breathe. Her petite body kept trying to grind itself against any available surface before stopping itself.
"Uh," said Vice from behind her, his gravitas disappearing. "I feel like this anger is kind of going towards the wrong target."
Lars suddenly went shock-still, only now actually listening to what she had been saying. The things she just accused Brad of, the things she just admitted to. She turned back over, feeling the new wings pin themselves against her back, her breasts tingling, her sex wanting, her tail twitching. She became suddenly aware of how ridiculous she looked, how ridiculous she sounded, how ridiculous she was.
Spoiler: Full body portrait
She heard Brad get up and walk towards the apartment door. "I'm... going to go read on the roof." There was a slight pause as she opened up the door and walked through. "I'll be back."
And then the door closed. She brought her eyes back to Vice, who had, at some point in the conversation, gotten rid of his ratty jeans and was now above her, dick out and erect, looking strangely hesitant.
Lars looked at the member, feeling the arousal climb towards the peak again. And then feeling shame at the fact that she was aroused. And then feeling aroused in response to her own shame.
Oh, I'm absolutely fucked. Even If they find a way to kill Vice and turn me back, I'm fucked. My brain is just gone.
She looked at Vice, looked down at his dick, and felt something break inside her. Metaphorically, this time.
"Do it," she said. And Vice, after a second too long, did.
His dick plunged downwards, into her small, waiting snatch. It filled the entire thing, and the feeling like she was somehow suffocating returned. The both rocked into one another, him getting closer and closer as he continued to engorge and throb. Lars hadn't gotten any further along, sitting just next to the peak as she was. She needed to make this go faster. She rocked harder, flexing muscles she never had before to squeeze down at the peak of every thrust, the dick inside her hardening each any every second until it was like trying to crush a rock with her snatch.
She felt Vice's hands reach around her neck again, and then there was a click of metal, she reached up and felt the collar there, snug as could be. The bell on the collar began to jingle and chime every time she rocked back and forth.
"That's all you can wear from now on," said Vice, his confidence returning. "Pets don't get clothes."
Thoughts of possibly escaping this filled her mind. Of her friends coming to save her, Cricket swiping her scythe through vice's neck, Kaiser impaling him ass-to-head, the twins stomping him flat. Her breathing became harder and harder, the mewling noise from earlier returning, like some sex-crazed animal.
But then she thought about the task of asking them for help. She thought about coming to their door, naked, only a collar around her neck, explaining the threat Vice posed. She thought stepping into a Medhall meeting, nothing but a collar and a briefcase, handing out glossy printouts of her getting fucked and railed from every angle, of her eating out of pet food trays, of her being led around on a leash, desperately trying to cover herself, blushing hard enough to be seen through the fur. She imagined giving a fucking powerpoint presentation on everything Vice had done to her.
She began to laugh, tears forming in her eyes at the ridiculous, shameful image. She thought about her finishing up the presentation, her colleagues and fellow murderers looking at her, her! In shock and horror. All those monsters, just like her, balking at what had happened when they themselves had burned, killed, suffocated, slaughtered.
She imagined unlatching her cute little briefcase. From inside, Vice would step out of it like a cartoon character, starting compact and growing to a monstrous size. She imagined the screaming. Her wings began to flap faster and faster, her power joining in until there was a miniature storm brewing in her own apartment. Movie posters coming down from the walls, glasses knocked away from counters, a howling storm building inside.
Vice came, semen igniting the building fire inside of her like lighter fluid, and she came as well. A breath of air, of pure pleasure. And then the storm quenched the fire. Blowing it out like a candle.
Brockton Bay, December 26th, 10:12 PM
Lars' power meant she could smell the couch from everywhere in the apartment. It honestly might have been worth burning the thing. It was worse, now with her sense of smell having improved dramatically overnight. She couldn't escape it, the evidence of what had been done.
Now, she was an animal. A freak of nature. What red-blooded American woman or even man would look at something like her and think 'I want to fuck that.' It's unnatural. No one would.
Except Vice.
They both sat at the kitchen table, a pile of microwave dinner boxes sitting in the corner next to the garbage. Vice had poured them both drinks. She noticed that another one of the notches on his mask had opened up, revealing a bright orange eye, same as her news ones. Not as large as them obviously,that wouldn't fit in the mask. She watched the psychopath skate over to the table on a cushion of compressed air as if he had been using Lars' power his entire life.
She glanced outside and saw it was completely dark now. No light but for the dull glow of the Rig on the horizon of the bay.
"Why the fuck do I look like a child," she asked through gritted teeth, taking a long swig of the beer in front of her.
Vice gave her a flat look. "I'm sorry, what children have you been hanging out with that have hips like those? Most of them I've seen are gangly little freaks."
"Ok, then why am I so small," she corrected with a snarl.
"I told you, portability and aerodynamics. I managed to get your weight down to a little over 71 pounds at 4 and a half feet, while still being as strong as a fully grown man. That's efficiency. Plus, I've massively boosted your flexibility, beyond even the ability of even the most skilled triple-jointed contortionists. I could fold you up like an origami swan, complete with functional wings!"
Said wings twitched in irritation."Why," she deadpanned.
"I wanted to be able to shove you in a cat carrier." She imagined it, and a shudder came over her entire body, before realizing that her reaction was visible in the way her fur puffed up and stood on end, and thinking about that just made her feel even more self-conscious.
She shut her eyes tight, anticipating a headache that never came. She couldn't get a read on Vice at all. She had been trying all night, and it seemed that his personality, his reactions, his demeanor, all of them would keep changing, over and over again. Just like the poker game. Ratcheting around in his own head until you couldn't get a grip on what he would do or say next.
What kind of man would fuck something like her? She was sitting right next to one and she still didn't know.
"Hmm, I suppose you have a point. Well, if it makes you feel any better, I can shout out 'This tiger girl is actually a 20-something year old man, not a child!' anytime we go anywhere."
Her head hit the kitchen table. If the headache wasn't going to come, she would just bring it to her. "You're disgusting. You going to add the Wards to your fucking harem next?" She asked, taking another swig of beer. Halfway through a single beer was already getting her drunk. God, he'd made her into a fucking lightweight.
"Nah, that ain't my scene, so much. I mean if they keep getting in my way, I'll give 'em a makeover, copy their power, and tell them to fuck off, but yeah, not my bag. That shit ain't my fucking Dao, man. Can't stray from the path."
"Give them a makeover? Vice, that's almost as bad." It was actually the worst part of last night, although saying that felt like an admission of some kind.
"Well, yeah, it's free real estate. And it's not an ethics thing, It's just what I want to do and what I don't." He leaned in, making the difference in size between them obvious again.
"The only things guiding my actions are my whims, and nothing more. I do what I want, and I'll follow that path to the end of all things." The mocking tone from before was gone, replaced by complete conviction, all 3 of his eyes staring at her with resolve, including a copy of her own. She swallowed, the irritation she felt before replaced by some slight amount of fear, or even awe.
And then the spell broke, and he elbowed her, almost sending her tipping off the chair. "Besides, if I need any kids I'll just make some, knowwhatImean?"
Her expression turned nervous. "You mean with your power?" She asked, taking another swig of beer in the hopes that this one would be the one that knocked her out cold.
"No. I mean with you, or Junkyard Dog."
She did a spit take, covering his mask with cheap beer. He wiped it off with a napkin without a single comment.
As she sat there choking for the third time tonight, Vice glanced at the window, and then looked down at his bare wrist like there was a watch there.
"Brad should have been back by now," he remarked. "I'm going to try to find her. You coming with?"
She recovered, blinking. Why was he giving her any choice at all? Was this a test, or a joke? If she said the wrong thing, what would happen to her? Would she just be told to stay still and be forced to sit unmoving in this chair until he came back, no escape, no relief? Say something, Lars, for the love of god, you can read people! You know how! Just do it! What do you know about him?
Lars knew he liked control. Lars knew he was a freak fucking pervert, but he didn't know why or even what the appeal was for him. Lars knew he was some sort of spaz, no doubt, the way he never seemed to stop moving, tapping his foot, pacing, or humming to himself.
How could he use any of that? What was the right thing to say? Would it be easier to escape from the apartment, or while he was outside? How the fuck was he supposed to navigate this conversation?
It wasn't the first time today Lars didn't have a right answer, but it was the first time today that he realized that he didn't have a right answer.
"I, uh, don't-"
Vice was already grabbing his big corduroy jacket and making his way towards the door, his bare feet floating just above the floor on skates made of nothing but air.
"Alright, don't fucking blow the apartment up again while I'm gone." And then he was just out the door and on his way.
No orders to stay, to not call the empire, to do anything at all. Just leaving her alone.
After all that! What the fuck was his problem? How did he keep just changing gears between dramatic supervillain, vile bastard, and casual moron? Maybe he was one of those multiple-personality-type schizos. Didn't he say something about hearing shit that wasn't there?
She sat there in the silence of her apartment. Slowly, she scanned her eyes over the mess they had made last night, when she lost control and reaped a whirlwind. Sighing, she got up, dropped down to the floor (because her legs didn't reach it anymore), and started to clean up.
She picked up scattered papers, sweeping up a broken potted plant, crawling under the couch to find a lost TV remote; kinda cozy under there, if not for the smell.
She tried to put on some underwear, and was disappointed, but not surprised, to find herself unable to pull them past her own feet, her limbs simply refusing to cooperate, rebelling against her on Vice's orders.
No clothes, just the collar that jangled on her neck.
As she picked up a few scattered books that she had bought a long time ago to look smart on dates, she stopped, finding something underneath a copy of Plato's Republic (She asked Brad what some good fancy history books for her shelf would be and he said to "Start with the Greeks" and didn't elaborate past that.)
Sitting there, on the floor, was a little burner flip-phone. Hers. Or his, rather. Fuck. Pronouns were bullshit.
She slowly picked up the phone. She had the phone numbers of everyone else's burners, at least until they swapped them all out at the beginning of the month. 5 days until this thing was a useless hunk of plastic.
She gripped it tight. Who could she call? They'd all think she was pranking them. There had to be a right way to show them, make them understand.
Wait. There was a camera on the phone. Cheap and grainy. She could send proof, show everyone what she looked like now.
The thought struck her. Of James, or Melody, or even Max, opening their phones tomorrow morning, and her being the first thing they'd see.
She started to flush again, heat rising in her loins, slowly, she laid herself back on the couch, and began to trace her hand over her sex. She bit her lip. Unf. Shame led to arousal led to shame led to arousal… the pleasure built and built, until-
Her hands suddenly stopped of their own accord.
Oh. Oh no.