By: Breaking Benjamin

I see nothing in your eyes, and the more I see the less I like.

Is it over yet, in my head?

I know nothing of your kind, and I won't reveal your evil mind.

Is it over yet? I can't win.

So sacrifice yourself, and let me have what's left.
I know that I can find the fire in your eyes.
I'm going all the way, get away, please.

You take the breath right out of me.
You left a hole where my heart should be.
You got to fight just to make it through,
'cause I will be the death of you.

This will be all over soon.
Pour salt into the open wound.

Is it over yet? Let me in.

I'm waiting, I'm praying, realize, start hating.


Written by: Lourdes, a.k.a. I Fancy Hugh Dancy

Rating: T – MA for violence, language and mature situations.

Genre: Tragedy

Summary: When the hunter becomes the hunted, the rules suddenly change. OneShot.

Disclaimer: This story is pure fanfiction. I do not own the Saints. I own the female character in this story.

Author's Note: This is my third BDS fic. Just a short OneShot this time since this has been rolling around in my head for a little while. It's somewhat different from my usual pieces, so I hope you like it. I just wanted to do a little experimenting! If you have the time, check out my other BDS fics, "Even in Heaven" and "Path to Sainthood". I would love to hear from anyone and everyone. Any comments, questions, corrections, constructive criticism, suggestions and encouragement are welcome and appreciated!


She observed him with an unflinching gaze, lost in the midst of contemplative silence. His chest rose and fell in a rhythmic pace, expression revealing no signs of consciousness. He's unaware of my presence, she proclaimed to herself, steadying her shoulders and straightening her back. He's so vulnerable…too vulnerable. Disregarding her doubts after a minor pause of hesitation, she believed that this was the opportune moment: the glitch in a system, the weakness of a Saint.

With ghost-like stealth, she began to move. Step by step, inch by inch, her focused eyes never left her immobile target. Pressing sweaty palms upon the surface of her leather jacket, she exhaled through tight lips, mindful of every move she made. Waking his brother and father would only be disastrous – albeit not for her, she thought conceitedly to herself. No time to think highly of yourself, love. The clock is ticking, so move yer fuckin' arse.


Stalk still, she stands. With eyes and ears immediately alert, she places her hand within her pocket, ready. Only silence greets her, and she momentarily calms, eyes falling upon his sleeping, peaceful form once more. Those lips, those eyes – she knew them once, a long time ago. How did it feel like to be once touched by those hands? Those filthy, calloused hands: a traitor to her, her men, and her cause.

Slowly, he pressed into her, their whole forms now fully touching. Sweaty chests and slick mouths; both bodies emanating warmth. She bit her bottom lip, catching a gasp as it threatened to escape her lips. Growing, throbbing, wanting – she could now feel all of him within her. Within moments, he released an unrestricted roar in return, the burning friction almost too much to bear. She silenced his panted curses with a hungry kiss, rocking her hips in unison with his. He gritted his teeth as her nails dug upon his shoulderblades, scaling down his back.

"Shit, that's gonna fuckin' bruise." He mused as a sadistic grin formed upon his thin lips. "She'll pay for that."

Without a word, he thrust deeper, longer, quicker, abruptly pulling her body upon his. The pleasurable collision destroyed her self-control, her body shivering and thundering cries of passion reaching the heavens.

"Ye want more? I'll fucking give ye more…"

"God, yer so fucking good…"

Focus. You need to fuckin' focus!

Eyes set, gun drawn. She was ready.

As he waged an inner battle all throughout his façade of slumber, he silently wondered how everything had come to this. They were happy once, weren't they? Aye, until betrayal and murder tore them apart. He knew reconciliation would never be possible, not after he found out what lied beneath the mask of an innocent. Murderer. And now, she was here in his room once more; this time not begging for more, but now poised to send him to his maker.

She clearly took him for a fucking idiot. Unbeknownst to her, he knew she was present from the moment her dainty little foot stepped through the bedroom threshold. Shit, he could hear her restricted breaths and feel her vindictive presence miles away. Fuck no, he wasn't a fuckin' idiot. Not one fuckin' bit.

She didn't seem at all alarmed when he slightly shifted in his bed. In fact, she seemed to be contentedly observing him, eyes glazed over as she became lost in a reverie. That moment signaled a glimmer of hope; a minute glimmer that maybe, just maybe, she would roll this over in her head a bit longer. Who was he fucking kidding? No, she won't fuckin' get soft now, he thought wryly to himself, this hit is too fuckin' important ta her and her fuckin' mafioso.


He then felt the cold, smooth metal of the revolver slowly root itself upon his temple. Even as death literally smiled upon him, he remained still, unflinching. Eyes snapping open, he immediately met her cold, hard gaze. At this point, he couldn't help but admire her gall, her fucking audacity for actually going through with this, and her fucking stupidity for thinking it would all go as planned. Squinting his eyes in curiosity, he saw a twinkle of something in her dark orbs; those same orbs which, he had once thought, held his salvation. Was it regret? Guilt? Or possibly fear?

"Do it." He encouraged lightly, even mockingly, through tight lips.Fuckin' right, I'll laugh in the face o' death. Snatching the collar of her shirt with his left hand, he jerked her forward, eyes aflame with rage. "Don't ye think that we fuckin' know ye and yer cronies are out ta get us? Hmm? So what the fuck are ye waitin' for, ye fuckin' tart?"

She hesitated.

This was a mistake.

She held him closely, as though unwilling to ever let him go. His name continuously fell from her lips, tumbling in sharp, hoarse whispers. He closed his eyes as his hands trailed along the sides of her body, feeling every inch of her warm skin, reveling in the feeling that coursed through her. With a final thrust, she withered upon him, shallow breaths masking the sound of their erratically beating hearts. She had tried to use him – and now, he finally returned the favour.

"I'm left with no choice. I'm sorry."

The sudden blast was deafening. Splatters of blood stained the bedsheets as her lifeless body slowly plummeted to the ground. The tiled floor was now covered in rivulets of crimson liquid, flowing underneath her from her bleeding heart.

A midnight murder, and he remained unaffected.

Eyes trailing from her corpse to the hole he had blown through his now blood-stained sheets, he pulled it back from his form, revealing the smoking barrel of the gun that he gripped in his right hand. He inhaled and exhaled, knowing beforehand that this kill would be a little harder than the ones prior. Running his fingers through his already mussed hair, he patiently awaited the arrival of his brother and father. Hearing their heavy, quickened footsteps in the corridor, he stood, mindlessly tossing the pistol upon the bed. As the door burst open with a thunderous crack, he merely twisted his head towards their panicked forms, eyeing them calmly.

"I know we vowed no women and no children," he began to reason, gesturing to the pale corpse beside him, "but this one was an exception."

As they prepared to get rid of another assassin's corpse, he reminded himself that he had apologized to God – not to her.