I’ll fuck you so cruelly, even your screams will lose their hope for mercy,he scrawls in rough strokes, his control slipping and the words, the tension, they send a tremble down my spine.
I can feel it radiating off him and the edge he’s standing on with each second that passes.
He’s losing it.
But that doesn’t stop my attitude.
“Oh yeah? Then why haven’t you done it already, necro? Why haven’t you killed me?” I breathe out, barely able to get enough air into my lungs with his big frame pressing down on me. “You could have when you watched me sleep, and you know it. I could have been your perfect little victim.”
He wipes his words away, his head turning slightly to catch my side profile as he answers me.
Because death would be mercy. And I’d rather have you live—tethered to me until you forget you ever wanted to be anything but mine.
My jaw tightens with distain as I read the words. Then there’s another swipe followed by more writing, but his red eyes never leave my face, he tracks every flicker of expression I give him.
Why kill you, when I can watch you die a thousand times by my hands—each time resurrecting your cold, lifeless body, just so I can do it all over again?
I don’t answer. I can tell he’s messing with me. He has to be because everything he’s saying is completely and utterly insane.
Swipe.
But if I ever did get that urge and stupidly take your precious little life. I wouldn't just screw your dead, useless cunt; I’d keep digging you back up until all I could feel is my hard cock fucking your decaying, rotting bones. Only then will I truly let you go.
“You’re sick,” I snap out, my voice sharp and cutting as I send spit hurtling toward his reflection, watching it splatter against the mirror.
For a second, there’s hush, just my heavy breathing as he turns his dark gaze toward it, eyeing my saliva like a man staring down a challenge.
Then he decides to do something that shows me just how depraved he really is. He leans forward, and my stomach turns at the sheer audacity of what he’s about to do.
His pierced tongue flicks out and gradually, he slides it up and over my spit, collecting and tasting it.
“Jesus Christ,” I shudder out, the bizarre action doing something wrong to me.
When he finally pulls back, the air between us is heavy with disgust and undeniable desire. Without breaking eye contact, he lifts the pen again, his hand trembling slightly with the kind of unhingeness only a man with no limits could feel.
Next time, aim for my fucking mouth.
I feel speechless for once, and I realize, in this moment, that this game we’re playing has no rules and I am completely lost of a voice for once. He could seriously be the death of me.
Swipe.
I get off over the fact you think you have control, but you have none here. Not with me. I'm the one who pulls your strings, and you’ll dance for me like my very own little fucking puppet. However the fuck I want you to, whenever the fuck I want you. Understand you’re mine now.
I just stare at his reflection, a scowl forming on my face and he picks up on my silence right away, causing him to swipe and write on the glass again.
I prefer it when you're quiet, little corpse. Because pretty little dead things don't talk back.
With that, he brings the pen to my throat, pulling my head back further, and drags a thick, black, single line straight across it.
I can’t help the whimper that escapes me as he starts adding little stitches along the line, one by one, as if he’s sealing my throat shut after he’s just sliced it open with his cruel, soundless words.
When he’s finished, he moves the pen to the mirror, and drags the tip over each of my eyes, carving little black crosses like he’s X-ing out my soul.
And just above it, in that erratic, obsessive scrawl of his, he writes:
See, so damn pretty and mine 4 ever.
Like a promise.