Who'd have thought that we'd wind up like this? Meeting in some grungy, run-down, rat-infested hole-in-the-wall hotel on the outskirts of Central, him sneaking into the place as though he expected that arrogant Colonel of his to be standing behind the front desk, demanding to know what in the hell is going on?
Heh. Not that I'm complaining.
I'm already waiting for him, having arrived early, as is my usual way. The set up has to be perfect.
I lean against the wall, watching him. His hands shake as he accepts the key. I told him, when we first started, that this would always be his responsibility: he was to check in and pay for the room; otherwise, the deal was off. He had agreed readily enough, just as I had agreed that his precious little brother was safe from us while he was with me.
He's so beautiful, my young paramour—beautiful and strong willed and passionate. It is his hot-blooded and undeniable passion that brings him here as often as he can manage, and it is his will and power that draw me like a moth to the flame.
It isn't often that our darkest fantasies get fulfilled.
And yet—here we both are. I'm watching from the railing at the top of the stairs, and he is ascending them; he knows I'm standing above him, but he won't yet look up and meet my eyes. He is still ashamed of his own desperate need, and that amuses me.
He walks past me and I look him over. His hair is hidden under a hat, and he has—as always for these meetings—forgone his distinctive red and black garb for something less flashy. Denim never looked so good.
He unlocks the door and turns to me, catching me as I leer at him, and he blushes, scowling.
"Are we gonna do this or not?"
"Of course," I answer, straightening up. I smile; his gold eyes flick over my body almost involuntarily and he swallows hard. I can almost taste the salt of his sweat. "After you, Ed."
He doesn't hesitate, and I step in after him.
I shut the door and turn the lock.
It was that moment in the Fifth Laboratory.
I'd seen him before, of course, long before Lust found him poking his nose into the state of affairs with that pathetic Majhal. Like seeks out like, I've heard it said... but then, I've heard a lot of stupid shit over the course of four hundred years.
Still, seeing him there, right in front of me, bruised and stinking of his own blood—our blood—and still trying to put up a fight... Well. That was something else, something more than those fleeting glimpses and glances I'd caught before that set me ablaze with fury that he could live so happily with his doting mother and our brother—the second son yet somehow still the first, the thief of my life.
Something else entirely.
I wanted to hurt him, to own him, to love him, to be him. I wanted to twist my hands in that silky golden hair. I wanted to make him want me, need me. I wanted to break that indomitable spirit. I wanted him on his knees at my feet.
Heh. That last part was easy enough once his automail failed and he couldn't resort to alchemy.
It so satisfying, the look on his face as his steel arm fell limp, so helpless. How could I resist the opportunity to give him his first lesson? A few well-placed kicks and he was on the floor, knocked breathless
"Don't you know your role? Do you even know who you're messing with?"
Rage flashed in his eyes as he looked up at me. Well, the first lesson always is the hardest; I wouldn't have been as interested if he didn't show so much resistance.
He hated me, and that was fine, that was good?I hated him too, the cocky little bastard, hated him so much every breath burned. The floor was such a good place for him, and seeing him there was so satisfying, so delicious, so arousing, that I decided that I wanted to see him there more often.
And I wasn't going to take no as an answer. No one said no to me and lived, no matter who it was or what Dante told me.
Nothing in the world is like it. Nothing is like the soft cascade of gold over his tanned shoulder, the faint blush coloring his cheeks, his lust-clouded eyes. No one else is as lovely as Edward, especially not when he's naked and on his hands and knees.
I reach out and stroke under his chin, tracing his jawline, and he tips his head at the snow-soft touch, trembling, but he doesn't dare move more. His buttocks are still tender and glowing red from his first spanking, the one I gave him right away for failing to disrobe as soon as the door was shut, and he's calmer now, quieter. More willing to accept that here, in this place, I am the master and that he is mine.
That was the agreement, of course, but sometimes he needs to be reminded.
I dip my hand to his throat, running my nail along the leather band fastened there and toying with the steel tag. I tug at the D-ring and he obediently crawls closer to the edge of the bed, moving between my spread thighs. He looks up at me, then closes his eyes and runs his tongue over my cock—such a little tease! I stroke his long hair, murmuring soft, terrible words, and he responds vigorously, engulfing me in his warm, wet mouth.
With an appreciative groan, I lay back on the filthy, stained mattress, and he sits up for a better angle, knowing me well enough now to understand that my action is permission and encouragement combined with no wasted words. His head goes down, the long bangs tickling my hips, and the delicious slick heat of him makes me lose myself. The things he can do with his tongue...
"Get up here." The words don't come out clearly. I clear my throat and try again, patting the bed. "Get up here. Now."
He stops doing that incredible thing with his mouth and begins to crawl up onto the bed. Slowly, insolently. He's trying to provoke me; he wants me to hurt him. I might even oblige him before we fuck each other senseless.
I'm not sure what turns him on more—the sex or the violence.
His lips are maraschino cherry red, and I want them as much as I want the rest of him. I reach out and grab a hank of blond hair, pulling him onto the mattress viciously, ignoring his outraged squawk.
"I said now."
"Yes... " he hisses, tears forming in his eyes, and I lean up to him, kissing away his pain.
He's mine, all mine. I thread my hand under the collar he wears and bite down until I taste the red waters of his human life.
I lay on the dirty mattress, savoring the feeling of completely relaxation flooding my body, long after he's taken his leave, strolling out the door with a snide comment and an arrogant smirk, rolling his hips saucily.
It's funny. You can see his behavior change as soon as he's made up his mind to leave—the shift in posture, tone, the expression on his mobile face. He's someone else entirely by the time he steps through the door.
He's everyone and no one, changing personas as quickly as he can change his shape.
He's never yet asked me why I do this, but it might be that he already knows. He's perceptive enough, when he feels like it. Somehow, though, I doubt it. I don't think he even understands his own impulse that brings him here, though I do.
I laugh aloud, and then stretch, wincing. The late afternoon sunlight feels good against my bare skin, but my ass is going to be sore for a few days where he beat me.
It was worth it though. Entirely worth it, just to see those pretty purple eyes widening in surprise when I pounced on him and threw his legs up on my shoulders. To see his mouth drop open first in shock, and then slowly curve up into a sexy little smile.
I'd never been so bold before, and I think he enjoyed it far more than he expected.
It's strange to think that I'm his indulgence.
I'm his sin.