A/N:
For the 100 Themes Challenge.
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He is running. Feet pound a heavy rhythm into the muddy earth. The forest around him is silent, the usual cacophony of noise muted in fear. Raindrops drip from the trees, onto his head and down his nose, before falling to the floor. His breath mists the air in front of him. It's mere degrees above freezing, but he wears no more than a thin cotton shirt, stolen from Casanova journey's ago, and loose trousers. His boots are flecked with mud and his shirt is torn where brambles and thorns have caught his flesh. Blood stains the pure white, but he feels no pain in comparison to his laughter. And still he runs.
He can see him now. Up ahead, the figure stumbles and trips, but soldiers on, running and running. So he runs faster, determined to end this as quickly as possible.
Predator versus prey; the age old battle of nature. Winner versus loser, time after time in a never ending circle. And he knows which side he's going to end up on.
The trees grow thicker. Ivy grabs at his body with its fingers, dragging him back, slowing him down. But he powers through, his finely honed strength being utilised to its full potential. This is easy for him, no more than a game. It's sport.
Hunter versus hunted.
And then the forest ends. The trees disappear into the distance as he runs and runs. And his prey gets closer.
He's nearly there now. He checks the gun attached to his thigh, and the strap on his wrist. And then he narrows his eyes, and focuses on his target.
100 feet.
50 feet.
20 feet.
10.
His target is faltering, tiring with the chase. But he has been trained for this; he keeps going.
And then he has him. He leaps for his prey and pushes him to the floor, the pure weight of his muscle dragging him down. The man beneath him struggles, arms flailing, but he overpowers him, pinning him down. And he smiles that smile.
"Get off me." It's growled; a command that holds no authority. And the arms holding him to the floor don't budge.
"Oh I don't think so. You're kinda pretty."
"I said get off me!" The voice strains, high in fear.
"Nah. I'm kinda comfy here." He rubs his body against the man he's laying on, making him squirm.
"What do you want?" the man asks, his voice barely more than a whisper, eyes wide in fright, like a rabbit caught in the headlights. He stares down at him, face inches away, watching the man sweat. And then he smiles again. Only this time, it's different.
It's evil.
His mouth presses hard against the man's. Teeth crash, and he bites down on the man's soft lip, making him scream into his mouth. He grinds his body against the one below him, gaining pleasure from the disgust the man gets at the feel of his arousal. He's enjoying this.
One hand roams the man's sore body, feeling every cut and scrape, revelling in the one's he made himself. The other hand slides down to the gun, strapped to his thigh. He slips it out of the holster, mouth distracting the man with short, sharp bites. The screams just turn him on.
He licks across to the man's ear, and clamps down hard with his teeth. He tastes the tang of the blood on his tongue, and hears the screams in his ears. It sets his spine tingling, every nerve in his body building up to the climax. He runs the gun up the man's leg, up his side and along his cheek. He presses the muzzle to the man's forehead.
"Nighty night," he whispers.
He fires.
The blood ruins his shirt, covering his own. The man's brain is splattered across the floor, but all he can do is laugh. He rolls off of the dead man, and howls in glee, feeling the adrenaline surge through his veins like a tidal wave of fire. This is his victory.
The hunt is over, and now he's off to find a new one. Because this is what he does. It's sport.