Prompt Post 3
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Marcus reels around, studying faces, looking for any signs (of creatures, of beasts, of monsters, yeah, yes), and more than once he gets a smile or a grope for his persistence, but he shakes it off and keeps searching, keeps searching.
And then, well.
Marcus sees Mr. Laughter. He's still dancing with the couple, head tipped back to expose the calm column of his throat. There is no amusement on those features now (all sharp lines and angles; jaw, cheekbones, nose. Marcus thinks he could cut himself on them), looking more like elation now with the pink tiers of his lips parted in breath and the fringe of lashes resting against cheek.
Marcus' mouth goes dry as all he can do is watch the perfect sync of their bodies against each other. The woman's arms are wrapped around Mr. Laughter's narrow waist, hands on his lower back under the jacket and digging fingers in with each roll of their hips, making him arch up into her.
The daze is broken by hands curling around Marcus' hips. Marcus stiffens, gripping a strange wrist and twisting around, bending the person's arm back.
Liathan gasps in pain, wincing, going with the movement to relieve the pressure. Marcus immediately lets go, shouting an apology over the music. (Fuck, way to go and not attract attention.)
Liathan experimentally flexes his wrist, stretches out his arm. He leans in for Marcus to hear better, saying, "I think now you owe me a dance. Or, I'll still buy you a drink."
Marcus is taken aback, sputtering, "I should go. I'm really sorry, man, like really."
"I shouldn't have grabbed you, I'm sorry," Liathan smiles. "Did your date not show up?"
"I'm sorry," Marcus repeats, avoiding hands that try to draw him in. "I need to go."
Outside, the air feels downright chilly on his face, but it's so good. Though he once again feels physically better, he's unsettled. There's a confusing jumble of emotions, and that was not professional, that was so dangerous, to lose himself like that.
Marcus doesn't feel buzzed, and in fact, as he starts to walk, he doesn't even know what really just happened. Marcus doesn't lose his focus like that; he's on a hunt, he needs to be alert.
Marcus dives straight into a search of the alleys in the blocks surrounding Khoury's. Patrol lasts until closer to four in the morning than three and besides a greater familiarity with the city, Marcus has nothing but a really fucking bad feeling.
The motel room is welcoming. With his a handgun with silver bullets under his pillow, Marcus stretches out still in his clothes.
Marcus startles awake, not even remembering falling asleep. The alarm on his cellphone blares next to him, and he silences it before pulling himself to the bathroom to relieve his bladder.
Marcus wastes time once in the shower though, letting the water beat down on him and the heat soak in. He gingerly stretches in the space available, joints popping and muscles giving a twinge.
He traces the stiff edge of the gouge that runs down his thigh, taking such prominence over the others that litter his body. (We should split up. We'll cover more ground. No, Servius, I don't think -)
There is still the echoing ghost of pain, of memory: (Marcus, you're going to be okay! I said I was sorry! You fucking bastard. I swear if I see you again I will kill you.)
Marcus tries to move on by turning off the shower.
He sits down in front of his laptop in underwear and jeans, and as it starts up, Marcus rubs the end of the towel through his damp hair. He ignores the growling in his stomach for now by checking his e-mail and the local news site.
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The other, larger club is across town and tonight, Marcus should try that place. Instead, he finds himself going to Khoury's again.
Marcus is sitting with a beer, scanning the crowd and feeling like a fool for maybe twenty minutes before he sees it part on the far side of the bar. Mr. Laughter slides up, flocked by his entourage. Cottia is already there, lining up drinks in front of them.
Mr. Laughter's eyes flicker up, catching Marcus' with that almost electricity in the blue-gray eyes. Marcus' face heats as Mr. Laughter's lips curl into a smile, and he frowns at the man with what he hopes is a clear, no thank you, sir.
Marcus isn't looking away, though. (He's not looking away. Why is he not looking away?)
Mr. Laughter stares back at him, and anxiety rips through Marcus, like he must get up and go over to the man right now. Marcus' chest feels tight, stomach in knots, and he can hear his own harsh breathing. (Get up, get up go to him touch him don't you want to kiss him?)
It feels like it takes everything he's got, but Marcus physically turns, and disappointment washes over him. The feeling slowly fades as he stares down into his beer, until Marcus is left with annoyance and knowing something isn't right.
Mr. Laughter is gone when Marcus spares a tentative glance around. Should he stay, or should he leave?
Cottia appears in front of him, smiling, reaching to take Marcus' empty cup. "Hey. Another?"
Marcus focuses on her, blinking. "Uh, yes, please."
When she comes back, setting a fresh pint down, Marcus stops her. "One more question; that guy you just served, the hipster blond?"
Cottia's smile grows and grows. "Yeah?"
Marcus sighs, knows this must seem so fucking ridiculous, but he's asking, "Do you know his name? Is he a regular here?"
"Yup, he's a nice guy," Cottia says, and Marcus chokes back a laugh, because really? Mr. Laughter a nice guy? "I saw him making some eyes at you, man. Wanna buy him a drink, maybe?"
Marcus shakes his head. "What's his name?"
"Esca," Cotta answers with a laughs. (Esca; Marcus' stomach clenches.) "I think I just saw him head to the dance floor. You should take a night off, Mr. P.I."
Marcus leaves, but doesn't take the night off, not really.
In the motel room, Marcus pours over books, websites, the Guild's archives, everything he can.
A siren (daemon, phasma) is considered, and though it seems possible, it just isn't right. Esca's power felt like suggestion, influence, appeal beyond anything, but it was for Esca, not for an illusion constructed from Marcus' mind.
When Marcus finally gets fed up and goes searching through the books stashed away in the bed of his truck, Marcus finds the answer in one he hasn't picked up in quite some time.
(Esca is, Esca is) an incubus (daemon, phasma). Marcus has never encountered this, still surprised even though he shouldn't be (because really, sirens are ancient, rare, but still known).
He almost picks up his phone to call his uncle, Lutorious, anyone, just to try and make sense of things, but he doesn't. There's almost that that sense of strangulation, that stab of lust just thinking about Esca.
Marcus is torn between fascination and fear (panic).
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Also, the 'verse is really intriguing :)
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I think you know my feelings about this already! Gorgeous and very intriguing. Can't wait for more ;)
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Oh, I love you. These ships never get any love. (Even if Marcus wants to kill Placidus.)
Incubus Esca and hunter Marcus. Oh, how I love forbidden love. I can’t wait to read more.
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warning for pain. which eventually will become pain!kink in the future.
**
"Spanish explorers had once believed giants lived here."
"We've seen this kind of thing before. I'm sure it's a wendigo."
"I know, I'm just saying -"
It lives here amongst these tall red trees surrounded by granite. It used to have a balance with the humans, but these new ones don't respect the balance.
Yes, it is giant. It is angry; once it had known such peace. It's tried to stay hidden for so long, but it couldn't anymore. Humans were coming too close, why couldn't they leave it alone?
"Let's split up. We'll cover more ground."
"No, Servius, I don't think -"
"Hey, c'mon, we got this. Meet me on the other side."
These two came here looking for it; they came here to kill it. They think they could? This is its home.
Marcus wakes up thinking he's still lying half broken in a forest in California, smelling damp air and grass and blood and sweat and the thing. But really, he's sitting up at the table with papers on the floor and some serious cramping.
Marcus doesn't want to remember. (Marcus! You're going to be okay. I got it. I've got you.)
Showered, dressed, and with cheap instant coffee sitting heavy in his stomach, Marcus tries the Guild's site now that he's narrowed down his search.
The basics match up with his minimal findings. Incubi/succubi: daemons that feed on sexual energy - arousal or frustration; induce lust. They can cause the feeling of, or actual, strangulation and paralysis; being fed from causes deterioration of health (that can eventually lead to death).
The Guild's collective reports end around a hundred and fifty years ago. What he does find though is a singular reference to an herb; one wears it on the person or keeps it close during sleep (under the bed, pillow, and so on).
Marcus is crazy enough to give this a try. He's concerned at the possibility of two hunts, but this is serious, and he can't ignore it.
Through the Network, Marcus finds a shop located on the other side of the county. He feels lucky; they're a reasonable distance away and have enough of the herb Marcus is looking for. He didn't want to have to wait longer than necessary, even for express shipping.
"A little goes a long way. You could do better than just carrying it around," Guern (the owner, a retired hunter) tells him during the sale, pinning Marcus with a hard look.
"I'm sorry?"
Stapling the bag shut, Guern hands it to Marcus. "There are ways to make oil, but with how limited it is, and how quick it looks like you want to get out of here, best bet would be to try straining it."
Since Marcus didn't give any specifics during their brief exchange over the phone, he's frowning and dropping his voice. "Do you know what I'm after?"
Guern shrugs, "Just saying, more potent that way."
"Thank you," Marcus says, and leaves.
Back at the motel, Marcus puts himself to the task. It's annoyingly slow to fill the sink with microwave-boiling water, but with a little metal strainer tucked underneath the shirt left to soak, he feels good about it.
Marcus makes a trip to his truck, rummaging through boxes for something else, something extra. Nails, pins, bit of razor - there, Marcus sees a short coil of barbed wire. He carefully extracts it, turning it over in his hands. The tiny spikes are sharp against his skin, pressing just from the weight of itself.
Marcus figures he should probably take this inside, and goes to sit down at the table with a few tools he had slipped into his pocket.
Pliers slowly fold and curve the wire into (mostly) a ball; inner spikes are flattened down, swallowed by the eventual outer ones. Those are filed down, progressively dulled until they scrape instead of cut across the pad of Marcus' thumb. Wire-cutters trim off the excess and he stares down at the finished product in his hand.
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Marcus tights his grip around the wire, grunting at the pain, and okay, he can do this.
Marcus imagines Esca dancing; the look on his face having been so different from the previously flippant arrogance, the movement of his body holding so much grace and promise. Marcus tightens his grip around the wire and sucks in a breath through his teeth when he presses too hard, the pain jarring.
Yes, this is going to work.
The rest of the evening Marcus spends trying to channel his energy into something before he loses his nerve. He does a light workout, cleans guns and sharpens blades, reads over his notes again and again.
Marcus calls Uncle Aquila to check in on how the hunt is going (could be nothing), letting him know how he's faring (you're lying Marcus you're lying), but really, it's just to hear his uncle's voice, and the comfort found in their easy banter.
Patrol tonight is solely for Esca (the incubus) and Marcus is as ready as he'll ever be.
The shirt left to dry in the shower is stiff, the fabric scratchy. Marcus wears it over a thinner shirt with a jacket on top. The wire ball goes into a pocket, silver knife coated with the remaining repellent in a boot, and a quiver of arrows hanging from the strap at his belt.
(Breathe, just keep breathing.)
The whole drive, Marcus' hands have a death grip on the steering wheel. He finds a parking spot a few blocks down from Khoury's and takes it. He opens the bed hatch of his truck to retrieve his crossbow, and then locks up before dipping into the now familiar grid of alleys.
Marcus works in a loop, and by midnight he's on his third time around when the monotony is interrupted by a door banging open. He flattens himself against the nearest wall, crossbow pointed down.
There are a couple moving away from the direction of the street. For a moment he seriously considers staying put, but of course, he hears the echo of a laugh (Mr. Laughter; Esca Esca Esca; Incubus).
Marcus tries to keep quiet, but the couple gives him no notice. When they dip around the corner, he has to slow down, straining to hear if they stopped or continued, but there's nothing.
Marcus takes a breath (breathing, breathing) and eases around the corner.
The couple is in the next immediate alley. There's a garbage dumpster on Marcus' side that may obscure their view if they happen to look, and oh, yes, that's very much Esca. Esca and his leather jacket and tight jeans, completely oblivious to him (is it the repellent, or is he just unconcerned?).
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The tiny spikes are points of white flaring hot as Marcus fishes the wire ball out and rolls it between his fingers. He applies pressure, letting them dig in, repeating over and over in his head to get it the fuck together. Marcus is already half-hard, standing over here watching them like a fucking creeper (he's investigating!), and needing to use the wire before he even has Esca's focus on him.
Esca drops down from the tips of his toes, brow furrowing as he looks up at the guy. Marcus wonders for a horrified moment if he knows, but just as quickly it's over. Esca reverses their positions and presses the guy against the wall.
Marcus holds the wire ball trapped between the handle of the crossbow and his palm, trying to remain calm, remain quiet. The couple is kissing and groping each other, and Marcus is disappointed, relieved, and anxious all at once. (But why?)
Esca shifts, tucking against the guy's side. Marcus gets a better look at the guy's face as it is tipped towards him. High cheekbones, full lips parted in breath, eyes that rival Esca's fluttering between open and closed as Esca's fingers close around his jaw.
Marcus is having trouble breathing, imaging those fingers on his own face, pressing into his pulse and throat. He has to bite back a surprised noise when an involuntary clench of his fist reminds him of the wire ball and that he must not get distracted.
Esca stops to lean back and look at the guy as he pets down his chest, hand slipping over waistline to cup his crotch. The guy's hips jerk forward, giving a full shudder and pulling Esca up into another kiss.
Marcus ducks around the corner he came from. (Breathe; reign yourself in.) Gingerly, he adjusts the wire ball (an awkward shape now by the curve of his palm and the handle of the crossbow) and his stupid fucking erection. He's angry at himself even if it couldn't be helped.
But Marcus can't give up now, so he returns to his spot, and the sight he meets roots him to the ground. Esca has the guy's pants open, slowly stroking his cock. The guy is slumped against the wall, legs planted to lower his height and ease their kissing.
Marcus' eyes follow the guy's hand as he reaches for Esca, but Esca shies away and laughs against the guy's mouth. Esca brings his hand up and the guy's lips part, tongue coming out (and so does Marcus', just to wet his lips) to lick up Esca's palm.
Marcus watches, face heating and posture rigid, each slide and twist of Esca's fingers returned to the guy's cock. Esca takes him apart, wringing more and more noises out of the guy, and Marcus swallows around the knot in his throat.
Esca shakes his head and drops it to the guy's shoulder, mouthing over the fabric. Marcus catches the hint of something like a shadow blotting out the already bad fluorescent light.
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Esca wipes his hand off and tucks the guy back into his pants. They stare at each other, so close that Marcus expects them to kiss again, but they don't. The guy looks fine too, and smiles wide as he leaves the opposite way down the alley.
Esca is just about glowing with satisfaction as he leans against the wall, hair and clothes a little wild. He produces a cigarette, lighting it up and blowing a stream of smoke towards the sky.
Marcus finally has enough sense left in him to turn and leave too, but of course, there's a voice calling out, "Hey, stranger!"
Esca has crossed about half the distance between them as Marcus turns back around, smiling around another exhale of smoke. "No, please, stick around. Didn't you like the show?"
Marcus realizes he hasn't heard Esca actually speak until now, and his voice is pleasantly low and even. (Didn't you like the show? He knew you were watching!) Marcus says nothing, wants to kick himself, and just clutches his crossbow and the stupid fucking wire ball.
Esca's lifts his chin a fraction, smile slipping away. Marcus can feel the weight of his regarding stare like a physical thing, and does not lower his crossbow.
Marcus says more than asks, "You didn't hurt that person."
"Why would I do that?" Esca flicks ash off of his cigarette before his hands come up in a placating gesture. He's not coming closer, but he's not moving away.
"You're not human."
Esca lets out that loud, fake laugh, "Sort of."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Your card was pretty fancy, Private Investigator." Esca inhales, exhales; Marcus watches the smoke drift. Esca's still staring at him when Marcus refocuses. "You're not what you say either."
"I am, sort of," Marcus plays with Esca's words.
"Ah," Esca says, taking one last drag off his cigarette before tossing it away unfinished. "So, what is it you're hunting then?"
Marcus shakes his head. "What'd you do to that guy?"
"Weren't you able to see it? It was a good show, right?" Esca teases, voice dropping suggestively lower. (He knew you were watching.)
“Did you like your,” Marcus searches for something, anything, "snack?"
Esca laughs, genuine amusement reaching his eyes. Marcus shifts uncomfortably, and as Esca's laugh dies into chuckles, Marcus is starting to see him as more annoying than anything. He sighs and takes his crossbow off Esca.
Esca grins approvingly at this, taking several steps, but halts. His mood seems to change like a switch, smile slipping off his face as his eyes rove over Marcus' body.
There's this building irritation under his skin, this urge to pull off the first few layers of clothing. Marcus is trying to shrug out of his jacket before he realizes, startling and squeezing down on the wire ball as he tilts the crossbow up at the same time.
Marcus manages ask with enough force, "How about we both play nice?"
Esca rolls his eyes and the crossbow goes back to aiming at the ground.
"You already know my name," Esca (Esca, Esca) says. "Is Shawn MacArthur really yours?"
"Marcus." Why did he just do that? (Why does it matter?) "It's Marcus."
"Marcus," the way Esca that says it, curled by voice and accent, makes Marcus shiver. "I like it."
Marcus likes it too, kind of. (Marcus, Marcus, Marcus, whispered in your ear and there's heat, and breath, and a heart thundering against your own.)
"Now that we're on a first name basis," Esca takes a tentative step forward and Marcus lets him, hovering just out of arm's reach.
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Esca dips his chin and looks at Marcus from under the fringe of his lashes, saying, "You should take off that shirt, Marcus."
Marcus wants to, oh does he want to, (those fingers pulling off your clothes, trapping you up in your shirt and you're trapped, but you're not, but you are trapped, but it's just him, it's just Esca), but with a squeeze of the wire ball he can force out through grit teeth, "What are you?"
"I'll tell you if you take off the shirt."
It's Marcus' turn to roll his eyes. "No."
Esca steps to the side, moving like he's following a border and Marcus turns to keep Esca in front of him. Finally, Esca stops and says, "You've got to have some ideas, smart man like yourself. I want to hear them first."
Marcus flexes his hand and stutters out a breath at the pain that he almost can't take anymore. Instead of answering, he says, "There's something out there, killing people."
“And you thought I was it?”
"Not anymore," Marcus says hesitantly. "And I'm not leaving the city, not while it's still out there."
"Fair enough."
Marcus snaps back to business, suspicious. "That's it?"
"What?" Esca asks, shrugging.
"Something kidnapped and ate a patron of the club you frequent and you just shrug?"
"I saw something in the news, but not about my club," Esca says, "Sorry, Marcus."
Marcus huffs out, frustrated. He thinks it's time to call it a night; Esca is more of a pest than a threat, and Marcus can leave things be that fall within the gray.
Disappointment courses through Marcus when he starts to say it, pressure growing in his chest and restricting his breathing. (Stay, it could be so much better. Hot hard line of Esca against you, pushing and rocking and it could be better, it could be so much better - inside you).
"You should stay," Esca says firmly, and really, Marcus wants to, but this is fucked up.
Marcus is squeezing the wire, pain fierce and radiating up his arm, but it's no longer quite doing its job. He says shakily, "Bye, Esca."
Esca's eyes soften and it feels like something relents. Marcus pants to catch his breath, heart beating so loud in his chest. Each step away from Esca is hard (maybe you still want to stay), but he makes it around the corner.
Marcus goes the long way back to his truck, even if it means trampling around with his fucking crossbow.
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And I love your style. So much ♥
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