Pretty When You´re Mine
I didn´t want to hurt him. I intended to kill him like the others, a quick twist of the neck, a quick snap of bones that would end his life quickly. By coincidence he was the last to arrive and therefore the last to die. He walked into the shop and noticed me sitting on the counter smoking. His eyes widened slowly. He knew, with the uncanny instinct of prey, that something was wrong. I didn´t make a move towards him. I just told him that he should go back into the training room. He shot me a wary glance and walked slowly through the shop giving me a wide berth.
I jumped down putting out the cigarette on the counter top leaving a scorch mark that no one would ever complain about. I followed him back. He hadn´t made it far into the room. He was standing a few feet from the doorway. He was staring at my earlier handiwork. There were six bodies sitting propped against the far wall. Their arms flopped at their sides loose in death. However their heads faced forward so that their dead eyes looked straight at him.
I was vaguely interested in his reaction. I could fend off any sort of attack he might mount. I would be amused by threats of violence, or by fear. He turned slowly and looked at me. He was crying the tears sliding slowly down his cheeks. He wasn´t sobbing or making any noise he was just crying. The tears shone on his face almost sparkling in the overhead lights. He just stood there staring at me, crying.
He was pretty, almost beautiful in his pain and grief. He was pretty as he cried with the bodies of the people that comprised his entire life providing a backdrop. Those brown eyes that I´d never noticed before were suddenly the most interesting things I´d ever seen. They were dull with grief and leaked tears steadily. It soon became clear he wasn´t going to move that he was just going stand there and stare at me.
I walked over and stood directly in front of him. I could smell the salt of his tears mixed with the bitter scent of fear. He was so pretty. I grabbed him and pulled him against me. His head tilted to the side a conscious offer to me. I didn´t take him up on the offer. Instead I took him over to the sidewall. I reached down and unbuckled his belt and pulled it off of him. I used it to tie his hands to the pull up bar that was bolted to the wall. I left him there and went to rummage through the Watcher´s weapon supply. I settled on a simple knife.
I walked back over to him. He was still crying. I settled the tip of the knife on his clavicle above the collar of his t–shirt. He didn´t seem to notice. His attention was glued to the bodies of his friends. I pressed the tip of the knife into his skin. His eyes slowly focused on me. I dragged the knife all the way down his chest. I heard the fabric tear and caught the scent of blood. I didn´t take my eyes off his. He didn´t scream. He just bit down on his bottom lip. His tears didn´t stop.
The following moments were a blur. I felt flesh part under the knife. I dragged my fingers through cuts pressing down roughly. I felt his blood sliding under my fingers. I heard his bones snap the noise audible in the quiet room. I felt his flesh under my hands as I clawed at him and pummeled on him. I never looked away from his eyes. I didn´t want to hurt him but he´s pretty when he cries.
His breath became shallow and the rasping sound of it dragged me from my frenzy. He was going to die. Without thinking I grasped his hair and tugged his head to the side. Then his blood was sliding down my throat and I imaged that his tears would taste similar. As I heard his heart slow I pulled back, tore open my wrist and shoved it against his mouth.
I waited. Some people never made it past this point. Some people wouldn´t drink. They just drifted off leaving you a corpse with obscene blood stained lips. My move was a desperate one. I was sure that he was one of those people. He wasn´t. He began to suck almost immediately. He latched onto my wrist with such force that I had to drag it away.
I untied him and laid him out on the floor. I stared for the first time at the damage I´d done to his chest. It was barely recognizable. It was a mass of mutilated flesh, bruises and drying blood. I watched and waited for him to rise again.
I didn´t want to fuck him. I´d never noticed him in a sexual way. I´d never been attracted to him in life. If pressed I might have acknowledged that people might find him attractive.
The first thing he did when he woke up was to search me out with his eyes. When his eyes met mine I almost gasped. The grief had been replaced by consuming adoration, adoration for me. I was the center of his world. No one had ever looked at me like that before. He didn´t move he just lay there in the middle of the floor staring at me.
I walked over to him and sank down to the floor beside him. I gave into a strange urge to touch his cheek. I traced his features my fingers leaving smears of blood behind. I traced the dried tracks of his tears. He lay still under my touch. His body seemed to vibrate from the effort not to move. He finally lost control of his human features, his fangs descended and his eyes took on an unearthly yellow shade. The look in those eyes was the same. They never moved from my face. He finally spoke his voice hushed with awe.
"Sire." It was the only word for him. He repeated it several times his voice verging on panic when I didn´t answer him. I clamped a hand over his mouth silencing him. When he stilled his frantic movements I removed my hand from his mouth and answered him.
"That´s right." I wasn´t sure it was possible for demons to feel joy but that was the only way I could describe the emotion that swept over his face. He was calm again and the awe was back in his voice.
"I´m yours?" It was almost a question. I looked down at him, at the blood smeared on his face and into those eyes. He was so pretty. I nodded slowly. He smiled the effect somewhat spoiled by his fangs. He was mine. It could be no other way.
I leaned down slowly bracing a hand on either side of him. I slowly licked the blood off of his face. I could taste the dried salt of his earlier tears, his blood, and faint traces of myself. I avoided his mouth. I made my way down his throat cleaning and tasting earlier wounds. I bathed his chest tasting blood that was old and already stale. I pressed my mouth roughly against the wounds I´d inflicted earlier. I bit at the edges of wounds starting the flow of blood anew. He just whimpered softly a sound more indicative of pleasure than pain. Occasionally he´d breathe out the word sire. I finished my exploration, propped myself up and looked at him again. He was so pretty.
I tore myself away from and flipped him over roughly. I tugged down his pants and fumbled at the fastenings of my own jeans. I pushed into his body without preparation. My hands were hard on his hips raising new bruises. I tore through flesh and felt blood slide around my cock. He didn´t scream he just pushed himself back against me repeating the word sire over and over.
He came just before I did moaning out the word yours. When I came I practically shouted the word mine in response. I didn´t want to fuck him but he´s pretty when he´s mine.
The End
