The Perfect Match [mpreg]

II

He smiles behind his mask, eyes crinkling just so as they darken with something akin to lust. A lust that isn't easily sated, a lust that isn't normal by anyone's standards. But to him, this is his normal. Standing over the chair with surgical gloves on and a mask over the lower half of his face is his normal.

He poises his fingers just so, holding onto the scapula as if he were holding a pen. Relishing in the first cut he makes with great precision, with great care. He almost moans as the sharp edge of the blade carefully slides against soft supple skin, digging in, in, in.

And as he works (carves) into his master piece, he stares into his victim's eyes, generic brown eyes wide open in terror. The delicious fear reflecting his guise.

It's truly a sight to see, beautiful, the red hot like lava that flows similar to racing rivers, trickles twining like rose's vines. It's amazing, aspiring, orgasmic even.

It makes his scrubs fit a little tight, makes his throat go dry as he breathes a whispered, "beautiful."

He reaches a gloved finger out and gently traces the round cheek before him. Salty tears mix with the captivating red and he groans.

So, breathtakingly beautiful.

He's in utter awe, always is when he can work with live specimen.

It makes his heart flutter and man does it race. No remorse, no mercy, as he ends it all.

Another s***h, just a bit deeper, and the light, the fight, leaves those boring brown eyes.

He sighs in satisfaction.

Too bad it never lasts long.

With a hum he takes off his gloves and they come off with a rubber pop. He balls them up and throws them in the trash from his perch by the cold tabel. It's dark outside, way past midnight, and he should be home. But he'd rather have fun.

He has a jump in his step as he moves the lifeless body and places it in an empty slot next to the burn victim of a wildfire.

He writes some BS on the remaining autopsy reports he had to finish and heads into his office. He takes off his masks, disposes it, and takes a seat in his leatherbound chair.

His computer starts up and he finishes the patient's chart with the time and fashion of death for the six patients still in his charge.

By the time he finishes it's nearing 4 in the morning.

He should be tired.

He isn't.

He can't be when he just finished something exciting, something so invigorating. Honestly, everytime he gets a rush.

And his stomach does this little flop when he finally gets a notification on his phone.

He opens it and a tender smile twitches in his lips.

He scratches at his 5 'o clock and types back a quick reply.

To Daniel

From -------

How are you? Shouldn't you be sleeping?

The reply is instant.

A small sad emoji sent his way.

His smile only grows.

And he types another response. One more brave, more confident.

I want to meet you.

This time, the reply isn't immediate.

However, that's okay.

He knows how to play his cards.

This isnt the first time he's had to wait.

And wait he will, because he knows in the end it will be worth it.

So very worth it.

He smiles, just a small twitch of the corner of his lips.

Sooner or later, he'll have him where he wants him.

And like a venomous spider, he'll wrap his prey up. He'll entangle them in his web and never let them go.

Not until he's bored.

Not until he says so.

Sooner, rather than later, he'll have them in his arms.

They'll meet soon.

He sure of it.

Can feel it.

He just knows.

It's okay if you don't want to, I don't want to push. I certainly don't mean to scare you away. But I do want to meet. When you're ready, I'll be here. Always, so long as you want me here, and even when you don't, I'll watch over you, he muses darkly.

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