Let It Bleed
Author's Notes: This is written for my dear friend Shiromori-san, whose birthday is on Monday, June 23. I had asked her if she had any fanfic requests and she asked me for a "nice" Asteroth fanfic, and this is the result.
WARNING: The descriptions in this are very grotesque. If you don't handle such images well, I don't suggest you read this, it's fairly graphic. There is usage of Medieval Torture devices, mutilation, abuse, blood, gore and death.
~*~*~*~
Through my winding labyrinth streams a rushing river. It moves on perpetually, carrying the echoing screams of those who will never escape the hell, they have entered. Here I am their ruler, their puppet master and they my slaves, who will do as I wish. For days they wander aimlessly through, my precious victims.
I soon will grow bored of this. Only for so long can I find temporary relief from the endless mind-numbing boredom that I am trapped within. The relief is watching the tortured anguish of my slaves try pitifully to escape from the depths of my maze, which none have yet done, for they are foolish beings who will lavish in the hell which I rain upon them in a torrent of fire and brimstone. That happens if I feel a shred of this so-called human pity unto them.
Spider... rack... eiserne jungfrau... cutting stool... cat o' nine tails... and the scold's bridle, all the tools of sweet o sweet torture upon which I can inflict so justly on my little toys, my slaves, as they aimlessly try o so pathetically to find the phantom exit from hell. Shall upon them I take pity, or forego any wait and end their miserable existence now with a befitting date with one of my dear ladies?
Through the long winding snaking corridors that are the encasing walls of hell, my beloved labyrinth bounce shrill echoing screams. Oh! How it sends shivers down my spine. Do it again my dear, how your anguish screams intoxicate the shredded remains of my fallen soul and whole being.
Aw…why do you not scream any more, my beautiful tormented slave? Why do you only wail? They sound like cries of lament, they shall not do, only now will the spill of your blood into my river fulfil my needs. The wafting scent of scarlet red blood drying on my hands, crusting and drying into a rusty-amber coating on my hands.
Your fallen body will lie at the bed of my river, your lovely blood draining from your o so pathetic lame form. That lovely liquid seeping from your body will colour my river a gorgeous deep scarlet before fading into the murky water flowing through. This, all before I shall through your mutilated corpse into my river, giving you the freedom you failed to achieve, you o so incompetent being, the imperfect creation of that so-called creator of the world.
Unto you I bequeath your fate – suffrage and torture, only for your end to be nothing spectacular, only a mere death at my hands as you writhe in pain, the delicious searing dull ache that will lance through your writhing form in bolts of electrical energy. Your body will twitch and convulse spasmodically, and cries of anguish will spew forth from your mouth, as parallel rivers of tears fall from your mortal eyes conveying the purgatorial hell I'm dragging you through.
Your lip quivers. You're mine, my beautiful slave. Now you shall get your escape, though you'll only wish I would kill you sooner. Your blood will flow through your veins a while longer while I let my beloved ladies play with you.
Perhaps a sensual dance with my rack will arouse my senses, as you shrilly cry out, your agony contorting your features. You'll be bonded o so helplessly at my mercy to the rack, the dance comprising of your limbs gradually being dislodged forcefully from your body, horrific cracking and popping as the bones are disjointed from their proper place, all feeling gone to the limbs, which are only lame impediments now?
Shall I kindly bestow upon you the relief of death, or are you a masochist? Would you deny me that pleasure? O, how would you like death and blood? How I want your blood. How I want to wash away this boredom. Alas, decisions, decisions…
And it shall be that you will escape the cage of the scold's bridle because you hold your tongue. All the more pity for me, for I shall not witness your silencing, since you are saying naught but screams of anguish. Those screams are music to my ears as blood is calming to my soul.
Nor shall you have a date with my spider, though bodily mutilation would have been quite lovely on you. The open gapping wounds from which you shall bleed would have been an exquisite site to behold. The gorgeous sea of blood forming at your feet as it rushes forth from the dam.
Perhaps the eiserne jungfrau, my fatally attractive iron maiden would be meaningless at this point, though not if I set the spikes to impale the loins from which you procreate the creatures of God's twisted imagination. But, no sensation would trigger a cognitive response, as all feeling as been drained from your limp form.
There are bindings here to hold you up; perhaps a rendezvous with my cat o' nine tails is more apt. Isn't it the most handsome thing you've ever laid eyes upon? I certainly find it is. From the ceiling of the enclave which you now face hang steel iron wrist bindings and from the floor, the very same for the ankles.
No effort is required of your contemptible mortal; let the bindings do the work. All you need is to utter anguished cries as the cat o' nine tails deals out the forty sans one lash, as it in the Book of Moses that you cherish so. How the barbed ends will deal out the bloody fate that awaits you.
The sounds of your ripping, tearing flesh echoes along the side of your agonised howls off the walls of my inescapable infinitive winding and snaking labyrinth. Your bloodied flesh hangs off your body, some pieces torn off, lying helplessly in the serene ocean of blood at your feet. Those fallen chunks of pale flesh float atop the congealing red sticky fluids.
The barbed wire cuts through your vulnerable flesh; eating away at it, tearing it viciously into strips of bloodied confetti. All this as you writhe, twist and wail pitifully to the heavens for reprieve. No one will hear your cries; they will go in vain. I am the only one who hears your pleas for mercy.
Blood trickles from almost every pore in your body; once you cry tears of blood will, I feel an ecstatic rush of rapture. It drips from the corners of your mouth, the mutilated nostril of your nose, your maimed torso, your clawed arms and disfigured legs that appear to be nothing more than two stumps of flesh and blood.
Soon they will fall off; your weak-willed flesh won't be able to hold them any more. Maybe I could help. Your legs are already dislocated; a further severing will relieve you of main. The cat o' nine tails can take care of that with a couple of forceful lashes, and near the groin no less.
The two useless impediments fall off, crumpling unceremoniously on each other in a mangled heap. They too drift atop the sea of blood along side the chunks of pale human flesh.
I gaze into the two dead orbs that were once your eyes. From them oozes puss. It's a smooth liquid substance, almost plasmic like. Tears won't fall from those eyes any more; they are dead.
Screams won't reverberate from your strained and tired vocal cords. Your cognitive response system has shut down everything, even that. The only thing happen now, is your death eternally progresses, your blood dripping perpetually from your body.
O glorious days!
Alas, my boredom has been alleviated; your blood trickles in a small river from the ocean puddle at your feet into my streaming river, joining the blood of the remaining eternally traumatised and anguished. It will take with it the memory of your screams, cries, and the plea for mercy.
You dismembered corpse will now float listlessly down the River Styx, taking you to judgement day before the mighty voiceless Uriel. Confess all protected secrets of sinful acts, incriminate yourself, you're damned to an eternal life of fire and brimstone in the abyss of hell no matter how innocent you proclaim yourself to be. You're a weak-kneed mortal with the lustful desires of all other mortals.'
Your days of trauma have merely begun. Where's your precious Messiah now? Who will save your soul? No one, you're damned to boil and fester in the purgatorial fires of hell for all eternity, and you'll wish you were back wandering the labyrinth, longing for the sadistic pleasure you allow me to wallow in.
You will long to cry out, "let it bleed!" But instead, you will only suffering long and anguishing turmoil in the fires of hell. Nothing will bleed, for you're a dead being whose dismembered corpse will be pecked at by ravenous birds.
Another piercing anguished scream resonates off the walls of my infinitely winding labyrinth. The sound of one who will be delivered to early to the doors of Hades echoes into the empty skies above. They are trapped.
And so, the cycle continues…
~ END ~
Author's Notes: This is written for my dear friend Shiromori-san, whose birthday is on Monday, June 23. I had asked her if she had any fanfic requests and she asked me for a "nice" Asteroth fanfic, and this is the result.
WARNING: The descriptions in this are very grotesque. If you don't handle such images well, I don't suggest you read this, it's fairly graphic. There is usage of Medieval Torture devices, mutilation, abuse, blood, gore and death.
~*~*~*~
Through my winding labyrinth streams a rushing river. It moves on perpetually, carrying the echoing screams of those who will never escape the hell, they have entered. Here I am their ruler, their puppet master and they my slaves, who will do as I wish. For days they wander aimlessly through, my precious victims.
I soon will grow bored of this. Only for so long can I find temporary relief from the endless mind-numbing boredom that I am trapped within. The relief is watching the tortured anguish of my slaves try pitifully to escape from the depths of my maze, which none have yet done, for they are foolish beings who will lavish in the hell which I rain upon them in a torrent of fire and brimstone. That happens if I feel a shred of this so-called human pity unto them.
Spider... rack... eiserne jungfrau... cutting stool... cat o' nine tails... and the scold's bridle, all the tools of sweet o sweet torture upon which I can inflict so justly on my little toys, my slaves, as they aimlessly try o so pathetically to find the phantom exit from hell. Shall upon them I take pity, or forego any wait and end their miserable existence now with a befitting date with one of my dear ladies?
Through the long winding snaking corridors that are the encasing walls of hell, my beloved labyrinth bounce shrill echoing screams. Oh! How it sends shivers down my spine. Do it again my dear, how your anguish screams intoxicate the shredded remains of my fallen soul and whole being.
Aw…why do you not scream any more, my beautiful tormented slave? Why do you only wail? They sound like cries of lament, they shall not do, only now will the spill of your blood into my river fulfil my needs. The wafting scent of scarlet red blood drying on my hands, crusting and drying into a rusty-amber coating on my hands.
Your fallen body will lie at the bed of my river, your lovely blood draining from your o so pathetic lame form. That lovely liquid seeping from your body will colour my river a gorgeous deep scarlet before fading into the murky water flowing through. This, all before I shall through your mutilated corpse into my river, giving you the freedom you failed to achieve, you o so incompetent being, the imperfect creation of that so-called creator of the world.
Unto you I bequeath your fate – suffrage and torture, only for your end to be nothing spectacular, only a mere death at my hands as you writhe in pain, the delicious searing dull ache that will lance through your writhing form in bolts of electrical energy. Your body will twitch and convulse spasmodically, and cries of anguish will spew forth from your mouth, as parallel rivers of tears fall from your mortal eyes conveying the purgatorial hell I'm dragging you through.
Your lip quivers. You're mine, my beautiful slave. Now you shall get your escape, though you'll only wish I would kill you sooner. Your blood will flow through your veins a while longer while I let my beloved ladies play with you.
Perhaps a sensual dance with my rack will arouse my senses, as you shrilly cry out, your agony contorting your features. You'll be bonded o so helplessly at my mercy to the rack, the dance comprising of your limbs gradually being dislodged forcefully from your body, horrific cracking and popping as the bones are disjointed from their proper place, all feeling gone to the limbs, which are only lame impediments now?
Shall I kindly bestow upon you the relief of death, or are you a masochist? Would you deny me that pleasure? O, how would you like death and blood? How I want your blood. How I want to wash away this boredom. Alas, decisions, decisions…
And it shall be that you will escape the cage of the scold's bridle because you hold your tongue. All the more pity for me, for I shall not witness your silencing, since you are saying naught but screams of anguish. Those screams are music to my ears as blood is calming to my soul.
Nor shall you have a date with my spider, though bodily mutilation would have been quite lovely on you. The open gapping wounds from which you shall bleed would have been an exquisite site to behold. The gorgeous sea of blood forming at your feet as it rushes forth from the dam.
Perhaps the eiserne jungfrau, my fatally attractive iron maiden would be meaningless at this point, though not if I set the spikes to impale the loins from which you procreate the creatures of God's twisted imagination. But, no sensation would trigger a cognitive response, as all feeling as been drained from your limp form.
There are bindings here to hold you up; perhaps a rendezvous with my cat o' nine tails is more apt. Isn't it the most handsome thing you've ever laid eyes upon? I certainly find it is. From the ceiling of the enclave which you now face hang steel iron wrist bindings and from the floor, the very same for the ankles.
No effort is required of your contemptible mortal; let the bindings do the work. All you need is to utter anguished cries as the cat o' nine tails deals out the forty sans one lash, as it in the Book of Moses that you cherish so. How the barbed ends will deal out the bloody fate that awaits you.
The sounds of your ripping, tearing flesh echoes along the side of your agonised howls off the walls of my inescapable infinitive winding and snaking labyrinth. Your bloodied flesh hangs off your body, some pieces torn off, lying helplessly in the serene ocean of blood at your feet. Those fallen chunks of pale flesh float atop the congealing red sticky fluids.
The barbed wire cuts through your vulnerable flesh; eating away at it, tearing it viciously into strips of bloodied confetti. All this as you writhe, twist and wail pitifully to the heavens for reprieve. No one will hear your cries; they will go in vain. I am the only one who hears your pleas for mercy.
Blood trickles from almost every pore in your body; once you cry tears of blood will, I feel an ecstatic rush of rapture. It drips from the corners of your mouth, the mutilated nostril of your nose, your maimed torso, your clawed arms and disfigured legs that appear to be nothing more than two stumps of flesh and blood.
Soon they will fall off; your weak-willed flesh won't be able to hold them any more. Maybe I could help. Your legs are already dislocated; a further severing will relieve you of main. The cat o' nine tails can take care of that with a couple of forceful lashes, and near the groin no less.
The two useless impediments fall off, crumpling unceremoniously on each other in a mangled heap. They too drift atop the sea of blood along side the chunks of pale human flesh.
I gaze into the two dead orbs that were once your eyes. From them oozes puss. It's a smooth liquid substance, almost plasmic like. Tears won't fall from those eyes any more; they are dead.
Screams won't reverberate from your strained and tired vocal cords. Your cognitive response system has shut down everything, even that. The only thing happen now, is your death eternally progresses, your blood dripping perpetually from your body.
O glorious days!
Alas, my boredom has been alleviated; your blood trickles in a small river from the ocean puddle at your feet into my streaming river, joining the blood of the remaining eternally traumatised and anguished. It will take with it the memory of your screams, cries, and the plea for mercy.
You dismembered corpse will now float listlessly down the River Styx, taking you to judgement day before the mighty voiceless Uriel. Confess all protected secrets of sinful acts, incriminate yourself, you're damned to an eternal life of fire and brimstone in the abyss of hell no matter how innocent you proclaim yourself to be. You're a weak-kneed mortal with the lustful desires of all other mortals.'
Your days of trauma have merely begun. Where's your precious Messiah now? Who will save your soul? No one, you're damned to boil and fester in the purgatorial fires of hell for all eternity, and you'll wish you were back wandering the labyrinth, longing for the sadistic pleasure you allow me to wallow in.
You will long to cry out, "let it bleed!" But instead, you will only suffering long and anguishing turmoil in the fires of hell. Nothing will bleed, for you're a dead being whose dismembered corpse will be pecked at by ravenous birds.
Another piercing anguished scream resonates off the walls of my infinitely winding labyrinth. The sound of one who will be delivered to early to the doors of Hades echoes into the empty skies above. They are trapped.
And so, the cycle continues…
~ END ~