Your name is John Egbert. You are currently walking through the streets of your domain. Well, technically, it's your father's. But hey, you're the heir, you do what you want. And you get what you want. You smirk as you adjust your tie. You glance at yourself in the mirror. Your dark blue suit contrasts against the crimson of the place you call home. You mean, fire's red, you're always around fire, so it makes sense. You are in Hell, after all.
You check to see if anybody you know is around as you turn the corner. You walk down the alley to the lower's realm. Your father, the Lord, specifically said to never delve into these parts. You find these parts entertaining, however, and none of the guards dare to stop you. You drop little somethings into pails in front of the…erm…less fortunate demons. You hate calling them the poor. It's degrading, even for such despicable things. Some of them are interesting though, one of them being an incubus. He's not interesting in a good way, though.
He infuriates you, and you're pretty sure you infuriate him. He's decked with piercings, which only belong to the rich, and he gives you a look that makes you shiver and squirm on the inside but makes you glare back at him on the outside. You never show any signs of weakness. His kind takes at as a green light. GOD you hate incubi. He grabs your leg as you walk by. Great you think.
"Hey," He purrs.
"Hello," You say, trying to sound official.
He gives you the kind of smirk that makes you melt inside, but you control yourself by kicking him in the shin. You would have kicked him in the shin if he wasn't holding onto your leg. Crafty bastard.
"What do you want?" You ask, a bit of bitterness shown in your query.
"What's your name, kid?" He asks in return.
"It's Lord Egbert."
"No, James is 'Lord Egbert'."
"I am too."
"Your name's John," He finally says.
You get the feeling that he was just messing with you when he asked that. Whatever he did, he did it well.
"What's your name?" You ask with slight interest.
"Broderick Quincy Strider," He tells you.
You can't help but snicker at his name. What kind of middle name is "Quincy"?
"Call me Bro," He says, his grin faded slightly.
You nod in agreement and swipe your leg from his grip. His smirk reemerges and he wags his tail. He's insufferable. He stands up and trails behind you as you walk through the alley, and eventually to the main street. You tell him to buzz off. He looks at the alley and shakes his head. He sits on the ground like your Father's Hellhounds. He actually looks cute. You roll your eyes and let him follow you. He grins and follows you on all fours.
You notice that the royals you pass by glance at Bro, giggling, letting their jaws hang open, and even applauding you for whatever reason. They must think you captured a servant. Maybe you did. You're not sure. You take him back to the palace and he stands at the doorway. His eyes grow wide as he stares at the door. You suppose he's never seen so many diamonds in one place. You open the doors and he runs inside, having to make you run after him. You shut the door behind you.
"Holy shit, man!" He says, flying up to the chandelier.
"Don't touch that!" You order.
He lays in it, making himself comfortable. His eyebrows jump as he sighs contently. His tail hangs limply from the crystal contraption. You float up to his level and yank him out, dropping him to the floor. He lands on his rear end, massaging it as it ached. He gives you that squirmy smirk. You can feel yourself blush as you descend to the floor.
You stand before him, not wasting your time to offer a hand. You cross your arms and balance your weight to one leg. Your intimidation pose, you call it. It seems to work. He shrinks a bit, slouches and lowers his pierced and pointed ears. He looks like a puppy that's been very, very bad. You like that look on him. You give him a cold stare.
"Broderick Quincy Strider," You say, your words making him jump. "From here on out, you belong to me."
His eyes grow wide from behind his shades. He scoots back, you step forward. He stands up, you float over him. He frowns and you smirk. It's a mental game of cat and mouse. But who's the mouse? He is, of course.
"You're kidding…" He says, not sure with his words.
"Oh, I'm not," You say back, giving him that purring tone.
He seems to melt under your gaze, and evaporate from your words. He makes an audible gulp and nods. He seems to submit. You tell him the terms of being your property. He doesn't seem to mind them. All except for one. When you tell him he can't make love to you, he growls. Loudly. You say another rule is no growling at your superiors. He pouts and rests his hands on his hips.
Oh you're enjoying this. You point to the ground and say "Sit". He sits like a dog. He's a smart one, isn't he? You say "Up", he stands up. You give him another order, hesitantly. "Go crazy". He pounces on you, tackling you and driving you to the ground, and coats you in kisses, licks your cheeks. You're not sure whether to be horrified or intrigued. You shout "Heel" at the top of your lungs. He stops, lifts you to your feet, and bows his head. The bad dog look again. It's funny how he goes from tough guy to a little pup. You think you've broken him.
And you couldn't be happier.