Prey -- Short Story

Author's Note: This one is another one of my favorites, this  time featuring my favorite characters I've ever written, I just find their dynamic and personalities so much fun to write, especially my little predator. I will say, this one is a bit more... explicit then most of my writings, so trigger warning for explicit violence, implied sex, and a general more mature vibe. 

Prey

Someone is stalking my prey,  is the first rational thought that passes your mind after you started stalking tonight.  No one can have my prey.  You reason with yourself after you switch targets from prey to predator. He’s yours, this vulture can’t have him. No he can’t. Your prey turns a corner. The vulture turns with him, and you turn with the vulture. No one cares when the vulture is yanked into the alleyway. No one cares as the vulture learns why no one can have your prey.  No one cares about the vulture, and you make sure he knows it. He can’t have what's yours.

The blood is warm over your fists. The vultures' choked gasps are electric to your ears. The satisfying crunch of his jaw is like the breaking of a dam. You let out a pleasured  gasp as the vulture falls to the ground. You love the sound he makes when you kick him in the ribs. You love the satisfying snap of his bones as your claws slam into his body. You don't even notice when the vulture stops breathing. You stop when you’ve had enough. The blood is delicious on your tongue as you lick your fingers clean. “Mine.” you spit out at the vulture. As you leave, the blood on your boots leaves a trail. This is not good for hunting. It's not right. IT’SNOTRIGHT. 

The vulture learns not to stain your clothes. 

You think about heading home for tonight, but you decide to watch your prey get ready for bed. The tree is precarious and cold, but the window is bright and warm. You make it just in time to see him ready for bed. He’s singing along to something, it's the best music you've ever heard.  He looks so delicious in the low light of his room, the soft flesh on him makes your mouth water, the contours on his skin would fit your tongue perfectly. His lithe body is beckoning you closer.  YOURTOOCLOSE!!!  He doesn’t notice when you sink back under the leaves. He can’t know you're here. Not yet. 

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 Christopher knew he was there, like always. His little stalker had somehow engrained himself into his life.  Christopher knew there was another man following him earlier, he wasn’t exactly subtle, not like his wolf. Not like those alluring icy blue eyes that almost glow in the dark.  Christopher felt a bloom of warmth in his chest when he heard the interloper be yanked into an alleyway. He wanted to watch, oh god how much he wanted to watch, but that might scare his wolf, so he continued. 

The wolf deserved a treat for his noble protection,  Christopher thought. So when those icy blue eyes appeared among the leaves beyond his window, he started singing, he started moving. He writhed slowly in teasing circles. He slowly exposed more of his skin. And he saw the eyes outside his window get closer, until he saw that face he so adored. He sighed when the wolf vanished back into the leaves, but he didn’t let it show. He let nothing ever show. He played the part of the naive lamb. And let his wolf watch him from the window. 

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The alley was empty when you arrived. Good. Less people, less eyes. Eyes mean watchers, and you are not watched, you are the predator not prey. Not prey. No one watched back here. You didn’t even hunt back here. It is nice to have no eyes watching, everywhere you go there are eyes, they all see you, and you should not be seen. The apartment is dark, just how you like it. The bathroom is exactly as it should be. The shower is cold. You think about your prey as you wash, and it warms you. The rooms are cold, and you think of your prey and it warms you. The food is tasteless, but you think of how your prey would taste and now the food is delicious. It's a side to your thoughts of your  prey. Your life is a side to the thoughts of your prey. You fall asleep thinking about him, and the next day you do something you shouldn’t, and you follow him during the day.

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He was being followed.  Christopher knew it and it wasn’t good. His wolf only followed him at night. Those eyes only watched him while hidden. The monolith of a man following him couldn’t be his wolf. The man was huge, maybe 6 foot 8 inches, and had the muscles to prove he earned his size. He would have been a fun toy, if he didn’t choose  Christopher before  Christopher could choose him. He was dressed in a red hoodie that was pulled over his head, obscuring his eyes and an old ratty leather jacket. His hands looked scuffed and bruised, faint scraps of dried blood on them. The man was a fighter,  Christopher knew he couldn’t beat him in a straight fight, even with the surprise afforded by his unassuming strength. Like everything in his life, Christopher’s body was a carefully constructed tool; Lithe and soft, but deceptively strong and flexible. 

He turned a corner. His tail followed him. He knew this neighborhood, all the chokepoints and ambush spots, right about then would be another corner with a small outcropping on the other side. He could take the corner and immediately duck into the outcropping. Hoping it would at least give him the head in a fight he made his maneuver. 

The man didn’t fall for it. He turned the corner and paused just before the outcropping. Plan B it was then.

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It’s not right. Your prey is gone. He wasn’t where he should be, he made a turn he wasn’t supposed to. You got closer than you should have. He saw you. You're sure of it. It's almost slow motion when you see the barrel of the revolver, and in two swift moves you have your prey by the throat.

 His skin is just as soft as you imagined, your calloused hand closes tighter to feel his soft flesh more. You're sweating. You squeeze tighter when he squirms, his feet kick off the ground, his soft fingers claw at your hand. The choke that escapes him is like a knife dragging up your spine. You take a deep breath through your nose to keep control. You smell his scent, his fear. No. Fear doesn’t smell like that. Arousal. That's what you smell. You love it, you want more. You want to feel his blood, his pulse. You want to feel his body writhe beneath you, not just as prey, but property. YOURHURTINGHIM!!! You let him fall to the ground after the blood begins pooling under your fingernails. You lick it off your hand, it tastes delicious. You want more.

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Christopher always prided himself on not letting things affect him. No blood or gore, no pleasure or pain could shake him. But the calloused hand around his throat affected him. Oh it affected him. The feeling of his feet losing traction, feeling of losing air, the hand tightening even harder. He whimpered, or at least tried, as his air closed. All the while, those eyes looked at him. Those icy blue eyes, his wolf’s icy blue eyes. He let out a soft whine when the calloused hand suddenly dropped him, he clasped his neck with his own hands and found bruised flesh and broken skin. It was exquisite. He shuddered as he watched his wolf lick the blood from his fingers.

Christopher always prided himself on thinking ahead. He always had his next three moves decided before the opponent had one, he always had a backup plan, he always thought of everything. He wasn’t thinking ahead when he pulled his wolf down into a hungry kiss. He wasn’t thinking ahead when the wolf pinned him to the wall, he wasn’t thinking ahead when he let the wolf do as he pleased. He wasn’t thinking ahead until the moment the haze ended, when the animalistic cloud had lifted from his mind. He wasn't thinking ahead until the wolf had had his fill and he had been ruined. 

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The last thing you expect out of your prey when you let him go was that kiss. Oh god that kiss was the best rush you had ever felt. You were so happy when he obeyed. When he didn’t fight. He’s  yours anyway, and now he knows for sure. He doesn’t fight when you let yourself fall away, he doesn’t fight when you make him know he’s yours. He isn’t thinking straight when you're done with him, when he's more than just prey. You take him where the eyes won’t see him. You make sure the eyes aren’t watching him. No one can watch what is yours to watch. No one can have him but you. He begs into your shoulder as you carry him. 

“I wanna be your slave,” he mutters into your shoulder.

“I want to be your master,” you respond.

“I wanna make your heartbeat run like rollercoasters, I wanna touch your body, so fucking electric…” He whines and nuzzles into your neck.

“I wanna paint your face like you're my Mona Lisa…” You growl into his ear. He’s silent until you get back to the apartment. It's dark, just how you like it. The bathroom is just right. The shower is cold, but your prey makes it warm. The food is tasteless, so you discard it for your prey instead. Your prey doesn’t want to sleep, so you tire him out. You sleep coiled around him, so the eyes can’t see him, so the world can’t have him. You fall asleep not with prey, but property, a mate, and no one else can have him.

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One of Christopher's most useful habits, in his opinion, was his tendency to wake up without opening his eyes, especially when you wake up in a bed you didn’t remember falling asleep in. He kept his breathing steady as his bedmate got out of bed and shambled off, his eyes shooting open when the bathroom door closed. 

The apartment wasn’t his, that was certain. It was dark, only illuminated by a single line of fairylights that zig-zagged its way around a corner. The place was a mess, like a wild animal had been living in it, he wasn’t even in a bed, he was in a mound of blankets and pillows piled in the corner, like a nest. He winced at the soreness in his back, and the ache of several bruises on his body. He rubbed his neck to find a bite mark, deep and crusted with blood. A shiver went through him as he traced the scabs.

He immediately collapsed back onto the bed when the bathroom door opened and watched the man that emerged through one eye. He walked out with his back to Christopher, revealing the thin long lines left by human nails. The marks tracing the long celtic knots tattooed up his spine to large antlers over his shoulders. The knots followed his spine down to the waistband of the old low hanging jeans. He stretched his arms out, the feathers arcing down his arms ending at his hands. He head snapped toward the bed, those icy blue eyes settling on the “sleeping” Christopher. He prowled over to the mound, leaning over the laying Christopher, blowing a breath of hot air over his face, a predator inspecting prey. Christopher barely suppressed the shudder that followed. He prowled around the corner with a satisfied growl.  

Christopher raised out of the bed slowly, ignoring the tingles of pain all over his body and stumbled out of the mound, clinging the blanket to his chest. His wolf was hunched over an old dirty refrigerator, mumbling in a gentle rasp to himself.  Christopher sat on a single chair against the table and stretched his legs over the table. “Good morning.” Christopher wasn’t startled when his voice caused his wolf to stand sharply, so fast the fridge rocked back against the wall, and snap his attention to Christoper. “I don’t think I caught your name last night handsome…” God those eyes made Christopher want to give control away. 

“Jack.” His wolf– Jack– spoke in a deep grating rasp.

“Alrighty Jacky… how about a last name?”

He shook his head slowly as he took a prowling step forward. Jack moved with the fluidity of a predator but rigidly and stifled, like he couldn’t completely control his limbs. “Your name?” 

“Christopher… a pleasure, literally.” Christopher winked at the massive man slowly prowling over to him. 

“Chris-to-pher” He stood over the smaller man and leaned in, blowing another hot breath against Christopher’s face. “Mine.” 

“Really?” he suppressed the shiver the proclamation gave him, suddenly the blanket around him felt too hot. “Why don’t you show me, Jacky.”  He whispered. He didn’t expect that he would feel so intensely for this man, especially hoping for him to take the bait as much as he did, it was unwelcome. Christopher never let his emotions get the better of him, it was a weakness, but oh god did he want Jack to mark his territory.

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Dissent can't be tolerated in a pack, you know this. You have to teach him a lesson. He is yours, not the other way around. When you're done with him he understands.  You lay him to rest in the bed. You need to hunt, he deserves a gift. He needs to be fed well. 

It’s dark in the city, just how you like it. Prey presents itself quicker than you expect. Lonely, solitary, isolated, it's the perfect prey. 

The blood splatters like a painting, the crack of his skull against the ground is electric, his gurgled gasps drag a knife up your spine. Living prey makes a  better gift, you decide, but the prey is too loud. The shattering of his spine under your foot is music to your ears, his gasps and pants as you rip his jaw off are wonderful. This will make a very good gift, your mate will enjoy this gift.

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Ever since he was a child, Christopher was different, his mother always complained that he wasn’t as cheerful as the other kids, "Appearance is everything Christopher.” She would say. “If people see that you sit in the dark watching the other kids and don't play, how will that look on me?” God, he hated his mother. So what if he wanted to be alone? What’s wrong with that? “You have to be normal Christopher. You have to play with the other kids, you have to be the little social butterfly I know you can be!” She hated how emotionless he was. She hated how anti-social he was.  So he would pretend to be “right” and eventually, he became a master at pretending. Poor little Christopher, so distraught after that fire killed his mother. Poor little Christopher, so distraught when his aunt fell down the stairs. Poor little Christopher, so distraught when his foster brother drowned. Poor. Little. Christopher. 

The sudden burst of the door opening shook Christopher from his sleep, the gurgling, and flailing limbs shook him out of bed. After a fruitless search for his clothes he decided to go without them, maybe it would even get another “lesson” out of Jack.

Christopher was never one for gifts, he never saw the point. What's the point of spending money on a random object just to give it away? Why would you go through the trouble for a person who wouldn’t stay around?  Attachments were a weakness, and gifts only worked with attachments. The gift Jack had given him, that somehow worked. Jack laid the body on the counter with a grunt, the body responded with a choke. “Gift.” He growled out, with an almost shyness to it. 

“O-Oh…” Why was Christopher's face so warm? He raised a hand to his cheek and felt a tear. Was he crying? Christopher never cried. He felt a warmth bloom in his chest. 

“Bad?” Jack tilted his head away like a dog that had done something wrong. He set a knife down on the counter. “Sorry. Prey is not a good gift.” He muttered, almost to himself.

“Y-you were going to let me kill it?” The body on the counter writhed. Jack nodded his head slowly, almost ashamed. Why did Christopher’s chest ache at that? “Oh… Jackie… that is so sweet…” He pulled Jack down into a soft kiss, a loving kiss, a kind of kiss Christopher had never given. “I think a reward is in order… but what would you want?” He placed a finger to his chin in mock thought. “Do you want… blood?” Jack shook his head no. “How about… gore?” Jack shook his head again. “Huh…” He started pacing, enjoying the hungry glares from Jack. “Oh! How about… Me?” Before he could even turn back to Jack he was pinned against the wall. “Go on, Jackie. Remind me who's boss.”

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Father used to tell you that to be a good hunter, you have to know your prey, know what they want, how they want it, and how you can give it to them. Father was a very good hunter. Father was right about hunting, about a lot of things, sometimes you wish you remembered his wisdom. This was one of those times. Father used to tell you stories about your mother, and you wish you had listened. Having prey was one thing, but a mate is different. Harder. Father used to tell you to always protect people you cared about, he used to kneel and place his heavy hand on your shoulder and say “Someday, Jack, you’ll have someone to live for, promise me you won’t mess it up like your knucklehead of a father?” Father never judged, he wasn’t a watcher. Father never cared when you looked at boys. Father always told you that “you are you, Jack, and I’d be a shit dad to stop you.” You should take your mate to see Father one day.

You curl tighter around your mate. The gift was good. You know him well. Father would be proud. Father used to tell you that you had to protect people. “You're a big kid Jack, you have to be a good kid too.” He would tell you. Father always believed in you, Father always kept the eyes away. You miss Father. 

HE’SWAKINGUP!!! You shove away thoughts of Father. You need to focus on your mate. He yawns softly into your chest, but pushes you away. He says he needs to leave. You tell him you don't want him to. He wants you to find his clothes. You tell them they were gone, he asked you to tear them off when you first got there. He isn’t happy, not mad at you, but mad, you know it, even if he doesn't show it. He leaves wearing your clothes, one of your shirts draped over him like a dress. Good. Now the eyes will see that he is yours and smell your scent on him.

 He doesn’t notice when you follow him back to his apartment. It’s too bright to get into the tree, too many eyes watching. Too many watchers. You hate being seen, perceived. No. No. No. You shouldn’t be seen. It's not good for hunting. HE’SBACK!!! The eyes can wait, you're busy protecting what's yours. You follow him to a cafe. You can’t take the same door he does, it says something in red, you can't read it. You enter through the front door with all eyes, take a seat in the darkest vantage point you can find. You watch your mate as he works. Silently and mostly unseen, just as he should be, he is for your eyes and none else. 

You're there for hours. You're there so long the light fades to dark. The cafe is dark and mostly empty, just how you like it. One of the men behind the counter speaks to what is yours, his eyes roam where none should. Your mate laughs, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. This vulture is bad news. Not good. He should be taught a lesson. Your chair scrapes when you stand up, and you prowl slowly to the counter. He stops you. Your mate tells you to wait. You don't want to wait, you want to teach the lesson now. He insists. You wait. The vulture leaves shortly after. Perfect. The vulture doesn't notice when you start following, he doesn’t notice when your mate moves ahead through the shadows. He doesn’t notice when he's surrounded. He will learn his lesson.

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The second Christopher heard his coworker call Jack a “Monolithic freak” He knew his poor coworker had sealed his fate. The park was dark and empty, perfect for play time. In one swift move the coworker was on the ground, Jack had got to him first, judging by the sounds of crunching bones. The smooth silent night was interrupted with the gurgles and cracks as Jack punched the man over and over again. Christopher watched happily as his wolf broke this man, and slowly shook his head when the wrongdoer reached for help. Christopher watched joyously as the blood spilt over Jack’s face. He made a mental note to lick it off later. Jack let out a sharp breath as he finished his “lesson,” He looked satisfied, and so passive. They left the body for someone else to find, walking leisurely down the path enjoying the silence, enjoying the dark. 

"Hey Jackie?" Christopher asked, waiting for the soft grunt beside him before continuing. "Do you think the Devil has horns?" Christopher looked up at Jack, and Jack's puzzled expression. "I'll answer that for you." He paused under a lamplight, Alone in a sea of dark, just how Jack liked it, just them and the bright moon above them. "He doesn't." Christopher held out a hand to his wolf. "Have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?" He held his hand expectantly at the larger man, and sighed lovingly when he tilted his head in confusion. "Would you like to dance with the devil in the pale moonlight?" He grinned when the calloused hand enclosed his own, and slowly moved back and forth with Jack. Jack was stiff and off step, but it was enough.

Christopher always prided himself on never being attached. Attachment meant feelings, and feelings were weakness, but there, under the pale moon as they shuffled to a song only they could hear, Christopher decided that he could have one attachment, one weakness. Christopher decided that Jack was his, and no one else's, and that was that. Christopher nuzzled into Jack's chest, and smirked at the responding growl, happy they understood each other. They stayed there, in their awkward dance, both too fluid and too rigid at the same time, and simply enjoyed being together. Just them. Alone in the dark, just as they liked it.