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Story Notes: This story contains graphic depictions of sexual situations between adults and minors, and may be offensive to some readers. Written for the Alex Rider 100 LiveJournal community in 2010.
Yassen liked to watch. Eyes, mouths, brows. Despite his self-induced solitude and blood-soaked résumé, he was very much a people person. His reverence for human facial expressions was almost artistic, and his ability to detect the minutest amount of emotion granted him control over his own.
He was a connoisseur of pain, fear, and pleasure; there was nothing like the target’s look of surprise seconds before death, the contractor’s pleased smile at a finished job, or the volatile mixture of hatred, terror, and desire in young Alex Rider’s eyes as Yassen pinned him down and took him, time after time.
Sometimes he went down easy. Sometimes Yassen had to beat him into submission. He did it as affectionately as he could, gently twisting Alex’s arm behind his back, lovingly pulling his hair, tenderly choking him to the brink of orgasm, then releasing and watching that indescribable look of shock and satisfaction rush into Alex’s face as his blood rushed out. That look alone would push Yassen over the edge, that look that sometimes made him wonder if there was more to life than death, something more than contracts, money and murder. Sometimes, he even wondered if he loved this boy.
Alex would cough and gasp for air, clutching Yassen’s wrists as if they were the only things keeping him anchored to this world, and Yassen would watch Alex’s cheeks return to their normal color, the small chest beneath him heaving with every breath. It was in this moment that the boy was most beautiful, the life returning to him after so much violence and brutality. Yassen didn’t know why he did things like this, crushing a rose in his fist to better appreciate its softness, torturing a child just so he could taste his tears. He wished he could stop.
Yassen had tried, once, to be kind, but it wasn’t in his nature and he had failed spectacularly. Alex was bewildered by the soft caresses and gentle hands, the long stares and slow, careful pace. Yassen couldn’t understand how this could possibly be worse than anything he’d previously done to the boy, but somehow it was. Somehow it changed Alex, who was once so resilient to torture, so full of resentment.
In the end, Yassen couldn’t finish it. The face whose hatred he had fallen in love with was gone, and now something different stirred in those mysterious brown eyes.