Gladiator by rawrave
Summary: And she was his saviour, the one good he had done in a whole lifetime of wrongs, the one redeeming feature for his miserable wretch of a past. She was his saviour, she was his.
Categories: AU Characters: None
Genres: Adult, Dark, Songfic
Tags: None
Warnings: None
Challenges:
Series: The Chronicles Of A Path Forsaken
Chapters: 1 Completed: Yes Word count: 3548 Read: 1793 Published: 04/30/2007 Updated: 04/30/2007

1. Chapter 1 by rawrave

Chapter 1 by rawrave
Author's Notes:
Definitely one of my fave to write for the series so far, the song at the end is dedicated to all the Evelyn P. Woodhouse-Browne's out there.
I am working towards a meeting between Logan and Marie, next part definitely :P
Gladiator


The rumours swirled in between the polite conversations, those short smiling little words held over trays of canapés and flutes of expensive champagne. Little words exchanged in the breathless laughter, sounds without meaning, hollow echoes in a world constantly attempting to justify its own existence.

They were short words, curt words, meaningful words exchanged by women caught up in their little worlds that continued to revolve, meaningless and mundane. A short flick of blonde expensively peroxide dyed hair, a waft of perfume and a mouth leaning closer to whisper in an eager ear, telling a breathless rumour, spreading a hope.

Hope for lost little girls, women trapped in worlds that held them up in high esteem where everything arrived courtesy of a gold card, a world where everything was for sale, where everything could be bought, including a night with him.

One night, one lust filled evening where he would take you the precipice, he would take you to the edge and push you over, where he would leave you panting, screaming a name, any name, screaming because his sort promised sensations, feelings beyond the wealth you were willing to spend.

Oh they had all done it, surely it was common practise at one point, who hadn’t lived out their fantasy of a ‘bit of rough’, but these days the buffed up and bronze gardener or plumber just didn’t cut it anymore, now it was them, they who were forbidden fruit, chained up and locked behind cell doors, that was where true satisfaction lie.

In their arms needs were met, satisfaction and curiosity satisfied, and one in particular, one who could instinctively tune into a woman’s body, who with a few expert touches could bring a woman trembling to her knees, as pleasure rode over her and she screamed, orgasm after orgasm ripping through her body.

He was the object of their rumours, their gold plated cards coming in use when they bribed the guards to give them one night, one night with the man who elicited excited whispers over glasses, a man who had them contemplating infidelity against the same husbands that bankrolled their extravagances.

Husbands, who knew business, knew all about hostile takeovers and who knew how to screw over a rival company, but who couldn’t say the same for the trophy wives they’d gathered along the way. Women through outward appearances were beautiful, stunning gorgeous specimens of the human form, but with needs as basic and intrinsic as any other.

The need to be well and truly satisfied, needs that were met behind imprisoned walls, steel cell doors and locked cages, needs that were well and truly satisfied by mutants.


She’d heard the rumours, of course she had, and like any true blue blood having the fortune to travel in circles as exclusive as hers immediately dismissed them as mere works of fiction.

There was no man, no mutant, half-man and half-beast that would take a woman and have from her lips spilling the most elated screams, there was no such man, no such truth, simply the stories of women seeking satisfaction.

Women like her, Evelyn P. Woodhouse-Browne, as regal as her double barrelled name promised and just as hollow and wanting. She had married young, married a man whom daddy had promised was a good match, and good little girls always did as rich daddy asked.

He had advised her into accepting the marriage proposal, advised her with all the compassion as someone who advises of the most profitable shares to buy, or the accentuations of the stock market, dear daddy had promised her it was the best thing to do.

And so it was, and she became the wife of the youngest elected senator ever to take a place in the House. She had all the wealth, all the grandeur, all the pomp and circumstance this world could offer, the best restaurants, the finest foods and wines, the best seats at the opera, the best of everything, and to a material girl of Evelyn’s stature it ought to have been enough.

Continually snapped in all the latest vacuous magazines, a celebrity with all the rights stardom offered, a job where no actual work was required, nevertheless the smile was strained, the effort clear.

When had it become not enough, when had the crown slipped, and just when had daddy’s little princess started fantasising about a mutant, half-man and half beast rumoured to satisfy where everything else failed?


She shook visibly as she stood before the overweight, foul smelling, sweat induced guard, both he and his paunch belly had yet to realise that a bath ought to be his best friend. She was dressed rather demurely; a small pink tailor cut coat covered her top half, a smart skirt underneath matching the coat in colour and designer.

She tried hard not to wrinkle her nose as she handed over the envelope, the fat smelly man chewed on a cheap cigar, the buttons on his shirt straining as he leant back in his chair to count the money, and she wondered for the hundredth time what she was doing here.

Here, trapped within these walls, she pushed her overly large dark glasses further up her cosmetically enhanced, beautifully sculpted nose, pulled her large brimmed hat lower and vainly hoped her disguise would work.

She could not afford to be recognised, she could see the headlines in bold print now, in all their black and white horror, ‘wife of prominent senator seeks gratification…’
But the desire, the sheer want was too much to ignore, she had been in the crowd tonight watching the fight, pressed back into the shadows she had watched as they announced his name.

Her breath had caught in her throat as the spotlight had shone down on him, hardened muscles, rippling biceps, wild untamed mane for hair; he truly was half-man half beast. And he was magnificent, glorious and for tonight, for just the right amount of money he would be hers. The thought had a heat pool burning between her thighs, her mouth ran dry and she self-consciously licked her lips.

He made light work of the poor soul they had thrown into the cage, and in those few moments he was uncontrolled and raging the whole crowd held their breath in awe at the strength he portrayed, even when his rage ran over and he clawed at the electrified cage that was the arena.

The effect was instant, sparks flew far, as metal claws met seven thousand volts of pure electric current, and he was thrown off his feet his body slamming to the floor, smouldering and burning through the electrocution. He lay perfectly still and she for the briefest moment felt bitterly cheated, the coil that had for so long tightened in the pit of her stomach wound yet further and she despaired of ever having a release. It was a pointed ache she had at last thought that maybe he would be able to cure, but he was dead.

His rage had killed him, and she shook her head as she made her way to leave, it was only when the silent crowd roared back into life that she thought to stop and look back, he was not dead. He was stood in the centre of the arena, drinking a beer that had been carefully passed through the short gaps at the bottom of the cage, beads of sweat rippled down his sculpted Adonis like body and she licked her lips once more.


He sat in the shadows, bare back against the wall; and grated his claws against the stone floor. The adamantium took care of itself, the metal never dulled or rusted; they always remained razor sharp and deadly.

But he liked the sound, cold metal ringing as the friction from the stone threw sparks, and he liked the idea that the look and sound frightened whoever happened to be looking in; the idea of a raging animal sharpening its claws had more than one guard pissing their pants.

And it was a reminder, painful reminder of who and what he now was, no longer man, all beast, caged and hated, wanted and lusted over.

Lusted over by women like her, the one who stood in the far corner of his cell, she was shivering and the scent of fear, anticipation and a thrill of the unknown came off her in waves.
He sniffed the air, inhaling deep; there was something else there, something deeper, need, desire and hunger. He smiled, his features still hidden in the shadows he scoffed, seemed like he wasn’t the only animal here.

He stood slowly, watching intently as she gasped, trying hard not to run; he took a step forward, growling low menacingly approaching her slowly, as a hunter moving in for the kill.

The rattling of the chains around his feet and wrists holding him bound to the walls reminded them both of just what she risked by being here, he was forbidden, a secret desire daddy’s little girl was most definitely not supposed to be getting wet about.

He’d seen plenty like her, whiny rich girls who pissed and moaned about how hard their lives were because nobody understood what they needed, wanting sympathy, wanting, needing, whining pathetic little girls.

He hated them, hated when they came to the arenas, hated when they arrived at the cells, thinking they could hide their features behind stupid looking designer hats and glasses. Hated the little gasps and moans they made, the sounds they thought set them apart, truth was they were all the same, dirty little whores, stuck up in their fucked up fake little worlds, trapped and thinking that what he could do for them was something unique.

He fucked them, long and hard, deep and full, up against the walls, teaching them things about their bodies, showing them positions they’d never even contemplated, most of them having only ever experienced the missionary sort of sex, the sort that was boring, unfulfilling and the kind she was aching to be over just so she could get back to booking her appointment for her next pedicure.

They were all the same, their finely manicured nails scratched the same against his back, their hair lacquered and sitting perfect even after a few hours of a good hard fuck, their perfume was the same; the makeup was the same, all of them plastic and cloned.

But she, this one was different, her perfume was faint and understated, her makeup minimum, large eyes staring up at him, and her hands hidden behind her back.

He had noticed her, looked her straight in the eye even as she stood at the back of the arena, and it was what had interested him. Her hair fell free from underneath her hat and he had noted the colour, not blonde, not dyed, but naturally, vividly brown.

And his thoughts, his memories had flown back to that day, the day his world had changed, the sight of dark hair and large eyes, a seven year old that had stopped and tilted his world on its axis. He remembered her, he remembered that day, the day he had died and been born again.

Evelyn P. Woodhouse-Browne was not that girl, but he believed for a few moments he believed, allowed his mind to substitute her green eyes for chocolate brown ones, had placed gloves on the bare arms, and had made the hair fuller, darker.

He closed his eyes and stepped closer to her, his fingers reached up tentatively and here, here in the dark it was easier to substitute this girl for the one he had so long wanted. He bent his head closer to her, whispered, ‘aren’t you afraid of me…?’

And even her response was exactly as he had hoped, the short and gentle but firm ‘no…’


He pressed her up against the wall, naked and wanting she parted her legs for him, as he followed the curves and lines of her back, slowly gently his fingers traced down, along the small of her back, around the firm contoured ass and gently slowly, teasingly into her moist folds.

She gasped a little at the invasion of his fingers, first one index and then the other, slowly stretching her, until he had at least three fingers inside her. Pleasure hit the very core of her as he slowly moved his other hand around to her front, searching through her dark curls, until he found that hardened nub. He rubbed forcefully against her clit, slow measured circles that drove her closer to the edge.

His fingers dove in and out of her, her ass moving faster and grinding harder, she pushed against the wall, her breasts bouncing maddeningly as she bit her lip, pert erect nipples rubbing over the cool stone wall, he growled in her ear, his warm breath gilding softly over her neck as the explosion hit her and she screamed out in ecstasy.

She sunk back against him as he supported her, breathing hard she hung limply about his shoulders, she had only moments to catch her breath as he whirled her around and lifted her up. She wrapped her legs about his waist, he hesitated a while, his length just pressing against her entrance, teasing.

She gripped him firmly by the neck, pressing her lips firmly against mouth, willing him to open up to her, and he did, tasting and probing her mouth with his hungry tongue. He at last pushed himself all the way into her, filling her to the core, and at last the coil, the tension wound so tight for so long was easing.

She moaned as he began to move inside her, her sounds swallowed by his welcoming mouth, he moved to the far side of the cell, and pushed her down onto the miserable cot that was his bed. He pressed her down onto the thin blankets, raising himself up and away from her, her face fell as he withdrew slightly, his length slowly easing out of her, and reached up for him, thinking this was all over.

But he only adjusted his position slightly, and hooking his hands under her thighs, fingers gripping tight, he pushed her legs up and further apart, bracing her, he rammed forcefully into her.

He could hear the breath expelled from her lungs as he pushed harder, she gripped the sides of the bed and worked hard to match his rhythm. She found it at last and they moved steadily, the skin under his fingers becoming bruised.

He rammed into her harder and harder, seeing chocolate brown eyes in place of the green, seeing dark hair, seeing gloves, seeing her. He was going to leave her bruised, marked in so many places and walking funny in the morning, but he didn’t care, for a few moments she had given him everything he’d long craved, all those faces and all those blondes, for this, for this moment when he could pretend that through all those girls, through all that mindless, meaningless fucking, he had been allowed to see her face again.


She raised herself up, her breathing easier now; he was sat on the edge of the cot, soft gentle tears flowing from her eyes, because he had given her that release, a freedom from that painful ache that had followed her for so long.

In those breathless moments as she had climaxed, she had looked intently into his eyes and whispered her thanks, he had seemed puzzled by her words, and only nodded slowly before he had turned away sitting as he was now, head bowed, painfully extracting and retracting his claws.

He had wanted to thank her as well, even if she wouldn’t have known what he meant. For so long he’d seen that girl, his Angel of Death as he had termed her, for her he had died, for her he’d been killed, broken apart and brought to life again.

He had survived for her, he had held on as long as this for her. For a ghost, for a mutant girl he was sure he’d never see again, a girl who could never have seen what she had done to him, who could never have seen what he’d become, for her, because of her.

It had been a good fourteen years since that day in the forest, she had been seven then, he had long imagined what she would look like now, at twenty-one he was convinced she would be something indescribably beautiful. Those chocolate brown eyes would be deeper now, that hair longer and full, curves, beautiful curves that defined the woman. A remarkable innocence that had struck him then when they’d first met, that would have remained, he was sure she would never lose that.

He had never contemplated the idea that she could be dead, that those soldiers had cut her life short just as they’d done his, he refused to allow that horror to encroach, for to lose her as his faith was to lose the one saviour he had clung to so desperately for so long.

And she was his saviour, the one good he had done in a whole lifetime of wrongs, the one redeeming feature for his miserable wretch of a past. She was his saviour, she was his.

He had not changed in appearance, fourteen years ought to have had their effect on a body as abused as his, but he looked on the outside at least as he had always done, the consequence of his mutancy, he could not age, he could not die. He could only kill, a monster that dreamed of an angel.


He watched her quietly as she rearranged her clothes, pulling the hat down and replacing the glasses, she looked back quickly as she left, he had lain back on the bed staring at the ceiling, his part was done, and she had no need for him now.

He stared at the stone ceiling, it was a constantly damp cell, and the mildew hung from the ceiling like a carpet. Despite the gross green slime, he smiled, because he wasn’t there, not in that damp, dank cell, no, he was in a forest.

A vast, lush forest that hummed with life, no soldiers, no guns, no stench of death, but life, flowing and vibrant sang around him. A warm hand gripped his and he looked down at the fingers entwined in his, black gloves hiding slender gentle fingers, hands he knew so well.

He turned to look at her, deep chocolate brown eyes, beautiful dark hair, and curves that defined a woman, his woman.

His angel had come to walk with him hand in hand, through a forest, through life, past the heartache, far past the dark cells, the misery of a pained existence. Walking away to a glorious sunset that beckoned on the horizon…walking far away…


"Misery"- Good Charlotte

Take a look around don't you see it?
See that you are the only real face in the room
No one here has a clue what you're feeling
Don't feel bad keep your sadness alive

Look at all these happy people
Living their lives
Look at all these plastic people
Theres nothing inside
Look at all these shallow people
Telling their lies
Look at all these empty people, people

Don't you know that misery loves company
Yeah I heard, that misery was looking for me
Happiness is a face that don't look good on me
Yeah I heard, that misery comes looking for me
Woah, misery's my company
Woah, misery is looking for me
Looking for me

The hands are up now
Everybody's singing, everybody's moving
They've programmed their feelings
They're synchronizing and criticizing
Don't feel bad keep your sadness alive

Look at all these happy people
Living their lives
Look at all these plastic people
They're dying inside
Look at all these shallow people
Telling their lies
Look at all these empty people, people

Don't you know that misery loves company
Yeah I heard, that misery was looking for me
Happiness is a face that don't look good on me
Yeah I heard, that misery comes looking for me
Woah, misery's my company
Woah, misery is looking for me

Don't you know this misery loves me
Don't you know this misery loves me
Don't you know this misery loves me
Don't you know this misery loves me
Loves me

So you're tired of running
You're tired of hurting
You're tired of living in their lie
You're tired of listening
You're tired of hurting
Keep your sadness alive, alive, alive

Don't you know that misery loves company
Yeah I heard, that misery was looking for me
Happiness is a face that don't look good on me
Yeah I heard, that misery comes looking for me
Don't you know, misery loves company
Yeah I heard, that misery was looking for me
Happiness is a face that don't look good on me
Yeah I heard, that misery comes looking for me
Woah, misery's my company
Woah, misery is looking for me
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