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Church Fuckboy Brador Gets Wrecked By Local Hunter, More At Six

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"You're a creature of flesh and blood, that's why you hunger for it."

The hunter hefted his axe onto his shoulder, sneering down at Brador in contempt. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. Rabbits are made of flesh and blood, but they're herbivores."

Brador snorted. "On the contrary. Rabbits devour their own young. The hunger for blood is a part of every animal, even if that instinct only rears its head in times of desperation. You're denying something that's part of your nature. Besides, don't talk down to your elders, boy. I've killed older and wiser men for similar insults."

"You haven't killed me, though. Even for all that you've tried." The hunter lowered his hood and fixed Brador with a keen stare. "I expected better, after what you did to Simon."

Brador lifted his chin and met the hunter's eyes. He wasn't angry- he seemed, actually, to be rather amused. "Who told you that I was trying, boy?"

The hunter examined his nails. "Do you want me to kill you, then, Brador?"

The entire mood in the cell changed, with those words. The chill of the cell was swept away by an organic heat, and the hunter couldn't tell if it had come from the other man and his searching gaze, from his own charged words, or from the sudden throbbing of his blood humming beneath his skin.

Brador leaned back and bared his teeth for a moment, tongue darting out to swipe across them. "Don't put words into my mouth, hunter. It's a terrible shame when a man who's been locked away for what feels like an eternity has better manners than you.

"At least," He continued, after a pause, "Let me enjoy myself one last time before my death."

He laid back, resting on the pile of mattresses and letting his legs sprawl out before him. His eyes were on the hunter.

Even with his mouth and nose hidden, Brador could tell the hunter sneered in response. He could see it in his locked stare- the kind of repulsion that came from subconscious understanding.

The hunter walked closer, and let gravity draw the head of his axe close to the ground, until he held it by the throat and let it bob at his side with each soundless footfall. He placed the edge on Brador's neck, one foot between his legs, and the other propped haphazardly against the frame of one of the many broken beds in the room.

"Go on, then." The hunter breathed, "Enjoy yourself."

They both knew that the angle of his stance, and everything about his pose, meant that the hunter could slaughter his prey with ease; nothing more than a repositioning. Even so, the old man relished the feeling as the axe bit into his skin as he swallowed, sharp sting flooding his nerves. He shuddered as his hands snaked down to his fly, eyes not once leaving the hunter.

It was a strange sort of contest developing between them, as each moment ticked by, and they watched each other warily. Brador, able to see nothing but the good hunter's eyes, the repulsion and the draw towards the situation battling inside him; the hunter, able to see nothing but the obscene curl to Brador's lips as they parted in a wolfish smile, blood rushing up through his pallid, unkempt face. Neither of them blinked. It would take less than that time for the situation to change, for killing instinct to drive the hunter to end this.

Brador took himself in hand. He knew that the hunter was going to take his blood after killing him, and the thought made him more feral in his desires than decades of isolation in a nightmare. He ground his teeth, which ached so badly to bite like a beast's, and arched his back, head pushing back against the ground until blood beaded up along the edge of the axe and started to drip against the floor.

He'd be a part of this hunter, yes. He could feel the hunter's grip shaking, eagerly, at the sight of his blood. A part of his strength. All of Laurence's fever dreams of becoming something more- something able to touch godhood- might reach their fulfillment in this creature of flesh and blood, whose scent carried just a hint of moonlight. He'd be little more than an echo in another's blood, but he would touch godhood.

He groaned, a long, slow sound, as he rolled his hips. The hunter's breath was heavy above him, as he stopped resisting his urge. It was impossible, when watching Brador squirm so under his blade. He pressed down, turning the groan into a wanton, gurgling laugh.

Brador spat blood as there was the slow crunch of cartilage. The slow dribble of blood became a stream, which pooled into the mattress he lay upon. "That's... the spirit." He wheezed, even as the pain grew unbearable, and just as much air left out the slit in his neck as went into his lungs. His hips shuddered one last time, and his eyes rolled back as he was overwhelmed between the strong and strongly opposed sensations of pleasure and agony. Ecstasy.

The hunter's leg, which had been perched so long on the mattress frame, came down on the axe blade with a fluid motion, severing Brador's head from his body. The spray of arterial blood covered the hunter, hiding the shameful stain of Brador's seed.