Chapter One

Ivan's Desires

(Warning: gore, violence, rape. This starts out with a bang.)

(I re-editied this chapter for a mistake I'll explain at the bottom)

"Mmmph! Mmmmph!" His Sunflower's cries were muffled by the dirty rag stuffed in his mouth.

"What a naughty boy you were," Ivan ruminated, rubbing the cold steel of his faucet pipe between the boy's butt cheeks. "You had me worried. Naughty, naughty slut. You will have to be punished more, da?"

Those blue eyes, puffy from crying, stared over his tanned shoulder at Ivan, widened with horror. They were pleading for him to stop. Ivan grinned, teasing the boy's hole with his steel rod.

His Alfred was helpless to stop him. The boy's hands and feet were bound together behind his back with a rope connecting them to a noose around the American's throat. Alfred had no choice but to keep his head up or choke. Ivan had him laying on his stomach on Ivan's oak desk, stuck in this permanent state of misery.

His Sunflower's back and upper arms were crisscrossed with whip marks and scratches, ones still bleeding. He also had patches of hair missing from his scalp, ripped out by Ivan in one of his fits of passion.

No matter what he doled out though, this boy would not break. He could see it in his eyes. It made him love the boy all the more. "Now Sunflower, when will you stop fighting me?" He giggled. Alfred groaned and squeezing his eyes shut and looking away when Ivan stretched his hole wide with a leather-gloved hand. "Beautiful," Ivan said, admiring the reddened hole. "Now which end should I use? This one or the faucet...," he trailed off, grinning as his pet's eyes shot open and darted back to him. "This one," he said, adding, "We will save the faucet end for a special night."

Alfred trembled and closed his eyes, returning his face forward. Tears trailed down his cheeks. He sucked in a sharp breath as Ivan twisted the pipe inside. His shrieks, silenced by the gag, he arched away, but Ivan gripped his waist one-handed, pulling him toward it.

A sob racked the boy's body; blood oozed out of his ass from the internal tears Ivan was inflicting as he shoved the metal far up there. "You adore it," Ivan purred, slipping it in and out of the boy. His own member rock hard and pressed painfully against his pants.

Screams are lovely, he mused in his head, but denying someone their voice is so much sweeter. Yes, there was something empowering about making them absolutely alone in their agony.

Lost to his own grunts of pleasure and Alfred's stifled sobs, Ivan drove the pipe in and out of the boy, enjoying the ripping sounds. It became easier as the blood lubricated the pipe. There was one thing bothering him though: Alfred's limp member.

He tutted and shook his head. His pet should be enjoying this too.

Leaning over, he kissed the boy's arms, digging his tongue into the many wounds he had marked his toy with. The boy tried to shrink away, but the ropes allowed little movement. "Stop denying me," Ivan whispered, breathing in the boy's minty scent.

Minty? A far away part of Ivan's mind wondered, Alfred doesn't taste like mint. The thought vanished quickly as he savored the boy.

Unable to hold himself back anymore, he yanked the pipe out and tossed it aside with a clatter. Ivan unbuttoned his pants and shimmied them down to his knees, releasing his stalk into the chilly air. He rammed into Alfred's bleeding hole. The boy's eyes bugged out and he groaned, wriggling away, but Ivan's bruising fingers held his hips.

"So good," Ivan grunted, grabbing Alfred's cock and stroking it hard. Though his smile didn't fade, his brows furrowed. No matter how he teased the tip or stroked, the boy wouldn't harden. "Pet," he warned. Alfred wouldn't acknowledge him. "Fine," he growled, stabbing in and out of the American hard enough to make the legs of the desk rock against the floor.

Alfred shuddered in what Ivan liked to believe was pleasure. "Whore!" he laughed, throwing back his head, he pounded faster and faster until Alfred passed out. He continued until the desk was shoved against the stone wall.

"Yes, yes, my bitch!" He moaned, pulling out at the last moment, he squirted out between the boy's tied up legs, milking himself to the last drop, he covered the boy's lower back in cum.

Panting, he sighed and turned to grab the pipe off the floor, noticing a mirror across from him on the wall. He froze at what he saw. The eyes he looked through were not his own, nor was the man reflected. That man was portly around the waist, had black hair streaked grey at the temples, a thick mustache, and cruel, deep-set, dark eyes. A man who haunted Ivan's dreams.

No, no, NO! His mind wailed, terror worming deep. Then he saw in the reflection who really lay on the desk. It wasn't Alfred. It was a young boy, one on the cusp of manhood, with silver locks instead of golden.

Despite the pain, the boy's violet eyes opened, a mixture of fright and fury, they glared at him in the mirror. How dare you, they said. Panic consumed him. NO! His mind shrieked, NOT AGAIN.

Suddenly, he was the boy, the young Ivan, his anus throbbing with pain and bleeding over the desk. A deep, baritone voice, all too familiar, cooed, "Ready my slut?"

Ivan shrieked into the foul rag, clawing out of the nightmare.

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Letting out a strangled cry, he thrashed in the bed so hard he tumbled out, his legs, tangled in the sheet, caused him to land on his back with one leg still on the bed. Naked and cold, he lay there panting. Waiting as the last vestiges of the visceral nightmare faded, growing distant, but never gone. Never gone.

He took in where he was. Yes, one of the many rooms of his castle in Moscow. Alfred was not here and never had been. The previous month's events came flooding back, washing away the last of that terrible dream.

He stared at the red canopy of his four-poster bed then his eyes drifted behind him, out the balcony. The half-moon was there, spilling its silver-velvety light across his upper half. He gazed at it, increasingly aware of a scent. Blood, he realized.

His eyes went to his lap. His dick and inner thighs were smeared and crusted with it, but it wasn't his. He sat up in concern, foggy memories bubbling back. A servant, a young man with blonde hair and blue eyes, that Ivan had requested for the night. The boy had been less than satisfying, but his memories of Alfred had left Ivan hard and even though humping the servant had been as exciting as fucking mud, he had done it. At some point, everything had gone hazy. There had been a gurgling noise and hands beating at him.

Rising to his feet, he already knew what awaited him on the bed. The boy's eyes were glassy and dead. His crushed throat explained how he had died. The blood covering the bedding below the boy's lower half and the pipe, glistening with blood, told the horror he had died in.

Bastard, Ivan thought, unsure who he meant. He shut the boy's eyes, knowing apology was useless. He had lost control. Another blackout had happened where his mind skipped over events. They were more common now. Ever since Alfred... he stopped the thought.

He needed the American back for more reason than one. Without Alfred, the narrow bridge of sanity he had been walking had shrunk to a tight rope. One that threatened to snap at any moment.

It was hard to tell what was real sometimes. More and more he felt he was losing himself. Becoming nothing but a host for Winter. Only with Alfred had he felt more in control of himself than he had in years. And now he's gone, he thought, his rage rising.

Unable to take any more, he grabbed the pipe, wiped it clean, and stepped onto the balcony. Even in Spring, Russian nights were cold. Russia had now become a land of perpetual Spring and Summer. Its winters sent to other lands such Canada and France.

He smiled, one that never reached his eyes, and said, "Winter."

The pipe turned freezing. A dull, purple glow emanated from it. A voice that would curdle most people's blood, spoke, "Yes, Snowflake?"

Ivan grimaced at Winter's use of Alfred's term of affection for him. Winter had been mocking him with it since they had returned to Russia. Forcing a smile, he asked in strained voice, "Is that your handiwork back there?"

"Ours, Vanya, ours," Winter replied. Ivan's hand clenched around the pipe. He despised Winter calling him that. That icy voice continued, "You were more than a spectator."

"You didn't need to kill him," Ivan said.

"We didn't need to kill him," Winter corrected, "We couldn't help it. We were lost in our mortal pleasures." Ivan wrinkled his nose in disgust, but kept his grin firmly plastered to his features. "Why did you summon me?"

Through clenched teeth, he said, "You once offered me a deal for finding people across great distances. A deal involving use of that place." He shuddered recalling Winter's lessons there.

"Yes," the voice agreed fondly.

"Are the terms the same?"

"They are."

"Can it be done to Alfred?"

"It can."

"Just Alfred?" He inquired, wanting to be sure of what he was getting.

"Yes."

"Why only him?" He asked, curious.

"That night we strangled him and he overwhelmed you, he let a sliver of my power into his heart. That seed remains and it is by that, I can lead you to him in that place you so love," Winter said, chuckling at Ivan's discomfort.

"And not the Canadian Prince?" he asked, contemplating the tortures he would inflict on that bastard if he could. For some reason now that he knew Alfred's real name, he could not recall the other. The Canadian Prince's face like his name was elusive to his mind.

"He is hidden," Winter said, his voice tinged with annoyance. It bothers him, Ivan noted with satisfaction.

"That is fine. Alfred is the one I want. When is the first night I can begin?"

"Less than a handful away. The full moon is near and on that night, Alfred will be yours."

"Then I accept your offer."

"Marvelous. I will prepare," Winter said and the glow winked out, leaving Ivan once more alone. As alone as he could ever be.

"Soon, my Sunflower, soon," he gazed up at the half-moon. He would have his Alfred even if it cost him dearly. "Forgive me," he whispered to no one at all.

(END OF CHAPTER ONE. The nightmares are back and Ivan's mind is slipping. He is losing himself to Winter. And what of this deal? What has Ivan given up and what has he received? Stayed tuned as we turn to Alfred in Chapter 2: Tales Under the Moon.)

(Did I fool you? Yeah, it was a dream! Sorta. The main thing is, Ivan didn't do that to Alfred. Now we can cross messed-up torture sex off our list of smut scenes.)

(Also the reason they spoke with contractions is because they are speaking in Russia. Sorry I don't speak Russian so... yeah just assume that two people fluent in Russian would speak in Russian.)

(The Mistake: I re-read this after several people's comments and realized that oops it had read "young boy". Like as in a child in Ivan's quarters. I was horrified. I never meant that to be a child that was raped and killed in that way by Ivan/ Winter. It was always a young man of Alfred's approximate age. Really sorry about that error. So I changed it above to read young man.)