Fanfic: Precious Little Else (1/1)

[smokingmirror]

Title: Precious Little Else
Author: Avarice
Rating: NC-17 (warnings for graphic torture, disturbing imagery, non-con)
Pairing: Tybalt/Skids (Soul Taker)
Spoilers: -
Summary: When the Soul Taker is captured and is less than cooperative, Mikhael sends in the only vampire who can get the job done right.
Word Count: 1813
Date First Posted: 14-07-2001
Date Revised - 17-05-2011
Beta: Kita
Awards: -
Notes: Tybalt POV. This completes the trifecta of Tybalt Torture Fics (tm), I think :) Again, not sure how I came up with half the stuff to write this... it's so not me! That and I have a mild aversion to knives... how on earth did I ever write Tybalt torture fics? This probably gave me my aversion. I don't remember having it before 2001 :D As always Tybalt is confident in what he does, but is always left wanting. I'm so glad he went to Utopia, where he could shag gods, and BMB, where he could.. er.. be a bitch and get his nose broken. Whoops.
Feedback: always welcome, as is constructive criticism.
Also Archived At: LJ

"In four hours, you will tell me everything I wish to know."

I hear my Master's voice. It is full of that arrogant pomposity I have come to know and loathe, and also dead certainty. He is absolutely sure that whatever he's said is the truth, or will, at some stage, come to pass.

The Soul Taker snorts condescendingly, his bruised face showing utter contempt. "I'm not telling you a fucking thing."

Mikhael just laughs his low, quiet laugh, and gives me leave to start what I am best at. I approach him with a stealthy ease. His hackles rise as he detects me, and attempts to fade into the darkness.

But there is nowhere to run, and most definitely nowhere to hide.

I knew Mikhael would call me. This Hunter is far too stubborn.

Mmm... He’s like a wild animal trying desperately to evade its captor. Not fearful yet, just defiant and vicious and still holding onto that faint hope that everything will be all right. And so, so beautiful.

Gods, but that is intoxicating.

I step partially into the dim light and open my mouth, deciding to give him the dignity of at least a guess at who I might be.

"Hello there, little boy."

Those deep hazel eyes flash and his jaw tightens, and I know he recognises me, knows who I am.

How marvelous.

+++++

I twist the knife deliberately with each incision. They are carefully spaced out, each one will display its meaning perfectly clearly once I am finished. I am something of a perfectionist, after all.

He strains against his bindings, corded arm muscles bulging obscenely. I realised after the first touch of the knife he could not be trusted to keep from moving as I scored his flesh. Best to have him restrained like this. He might bump me, and it's not like I can fix a mistake in flesh once it's made.

I don't like mistakes.

His cries are a little more than garbled noise right now. Mouth gaping, spittle flecked with blood.

He howls as I carve my name into his chest.

+++++

Plaited leather cracks. It sweeps through the air, cutting a brutal path before smacking satisfyingly against the skin of his back.

It ... flays. There is simply not better word for it. His epidermis tears like so much tissue paper. I like that. The wound is rough-edged -- Gives it that unfinished-work in progress feel.

Skin and flesh arc up like the parted Red Sea to reveal a thick line of bruised muscle that slowly, slowly begins to fill with blood.

The whip flies through the air again.

And I sing.

+++++

"You knew I was going to do this."

"Y-yes."

"I bet you've heard a lot about it... about the Hunters that get bitten. Do you want it?'

"No."

"Come on now... Aren't you even a little curious?"

"Get fucked."

"I plan to, but that's not the answer to my question,"

"I... I can't,"

"You will. Soon."

+++++

Dried blood is caked on his skin. It irritates me. I like blood the best when it is red and fresh, spilling forward from an open wound like a mountain spring. It has dried on his skin, brownish and cracked like the bed of a river.

This just won't do.

I wet a cloth with cold, nearly freezing water, and begin to wash away the flaking blood. With gentle circular scrubbing, his skin is revealed once again, in all its differing hues of pink, yellow, red, purple and black.

He flinches away from my touch, but only at the beginning. After all, where can he go?

Once he's clean, I peruse his body with an expert eye. Shivering, exposed, vulnerable. I pick up my four-inch scalpel.

Time to play again.

++++++

My tongue dallies over the gentle ridges of his spine. His skin tastes salty. Perspiration, and great bleeding chunks of fear. But still... still with that defiant streak that- well it makes this experience so interesting. I strive to find a new angle with each of my playthings otherwise... it's not good being an expert on torture and being bored.

Canines just tickle his skin slightly and he shivers. Mmm, an acquired taste. His neck is tanned, slender and unmarked. It would be so clichéd to sink my teeth into there... but it does hold a lot of appeal. That's why it's a cliché.

I clamp my knees around his waist, pressing my chest up against his back. He stiffens in that special way. Oh, but he is precious. He tries to quell the arousal, and if I was anyone but who I am it would go unnoticed.

"Mmmm..." I purr deep in my throat, cold breath making his skin bumpy under my fingertips, "such a naughty boy... what would 'lynne say?"

His muscles bunch in indignant rage. That's when my teeth slice into the soft curve of flesh where his shoulder meets his neck.

What do you know? I couldn't resist the cliché.

++++++

His legs shudder under mine when I take him. My hands slide up his muscled body. Even the gentlest touch causes him to flinch... Bruised skin is always so sensitive... it would take hours to index all of his lacerations, and I only have four.

Had four. There is little under one left.

I sigh in small disappointment, and the noise makes him tremble again. My fingers trace the contours of his chest. Steadfastly refusing to look at me, blunt white teeth chew on his lower lip, determined for the hundredth time that he will not cry out.

My finger outlines the 'B' scored into his flesh. His breath catches, and muscles tense underneath me as I spread his thighs.

He knows what I want. He cannot stop me.

Nor does he want to.

+++++

I wipe the sweat and blood soaked brown hair away from his face, letting my fingers caress his arresting cheekbones. He looks at me, and his eyes scream so many things. They are beautiful hazel pools of numbed terror.

Makes me hard all over again.

I press my chest up against torso, enjoying his flinch at my closeness. Dear, dear boy. I lick the tear away from his cheek and cradle it in my hand. His screams were so musical... I gift him with a tender kiss on his swollen mouth.

Pain suddenly explodes in my mouth, and I rear back in surprise.

He bit me.

He. Bit. Me.

Not truly believing myself, my fingers gingerly prod my lower lip, and they come away red. My own blood trickles into my mouth. I taste it, not really comprehending the death wish this boy must have to do this to me.

I look into his face and my eyes narrow. Those said beautiful hazel pools of his aren't filled with as much despair as I would have hoped.

Full lips turn up in a weary half-smirk that is both charming and defiant. I backhand him with my fist in what he expects would be his reprisal.

But he is wrong.

The adrenalin returns to my system. His face falls as I flip him over and smash his cheek to the ground. His hips are straddled once again.

My tongue runs along the delicate rim of his ear before I bite down hard, filling my mouth with his blood.

"The first and second times were gentle, Precious," I whisper sibilantly, "the third is going to be a bitch."

++++++

It feels strange to have broken him. He lies, dazed and bleeding, sobbing wretchedly. The lines between predator and prey have been blurred for so long, it is almost hard to believe that we have finally chosen sides. And it has come to this.

The great and unbeatable Soul Taker, crying like the young boy he is at my feet, and what do I feel?

Satisfaction?

No.

Joy?

No.

Closure?

Fuck no.

The best I can think of to describe it is empathy. My rational mind is angry at myself for even equating that we might share feelings... but, I know the truth.

I know that our positions could have been reversed so easily, and that if Fate had taken another path, he would stand over my broken body and would think these same thoughts.

We are more alike than we would both care to admit.

I kick him in the ribs, hearing one bone snap in a brittle fashion. He gasps, and blood stains his lips when he coughs.

Fucked if I will ever admit that, though.

Okay, so maybe I feel a little closure.

++++++

"There now... you know it had to be this way."

"I... I know."

"If the situation was reversed, you know you would do the same."

"Yes."

"It was going to come to this sooner or later."

"Yeah, I get it... heh."

"What?"

"It's funny... I feel like... like my whole life has been leading to this moment."

"That's because it has, my friend. It has."

++++++++

It all goes by so quickly... and with the end of my time now upon me, emptiness begins to gnaw at my heart already, eating at my insides like acid. What with precious little else in my life I cannot afford not to savour every moment.

I walk to the door and open it, stepping outside. He is waiting for me.

"You didn't kill him." It is meant as a question, but comes out a short, sharp statement.

Fists clench, I bite back a venomous retort that is sure to get my lip split. Moreso.

"No, Master." Head bowed, mutinous eyes down like a good chylde.

I am such a good chylde...

Mikhael looks past me and into the room. He doesn't need his sharp ears to hear the laboured rattle of air in the Soul Taker's fragile lungs. I glance up to watch his face, willing my derision and adoration not to show through the neutrality.

His dark eyes find mine and a faint flicker of appreciation crosses his features. He reaches and runs his hands through my hair in a gesture of familiarity I am acutely accustomed to. My gut wrenches as his finger traces down the curve of my cheekbone, thumb brushing my split lip. An amused light goes off in his eyes. If he smirks, I will kill him. I swear it, I will kill him.

"Good work, Tybalt," he says simply, before walking in to see the Soul Taker.

How?

How can he do this to me? He makes me love him and hate him and love him again. I know... I know better than anyone he could care less for me, and yet he puts on such a show that he does...

Makes me... makes me want to believe...

"Yeah, good work," I mutter to myself.

Christ, I need to kill something.

~finis