Hello Animamundi fans! I am back with yet another sick piece of work! - Well, in a good way... Three words: Sammich - Dashwood - Bath.
What you will find: near smuttiness, blood, angst material, some reflection on Sammich's past (we know he's effed up).
What you will NOT find: Cheese, sugar coated fluff, pink clouds and crack.
This story might be a kinda sequel to 'Masquerade' but you don't need to read it if Necromancer stuff is not your cuppa.
Written while discussing with Master who started to tell me about her own 'blood bath' ficcy - which is awesome too!
You won't find anything graphic but I put it in M just to be safe.
Disclaimer: Dash's does not belong to me and I do not belong to Sammich - VDM! Title comes from the song by Tristania. The italics at the beginning are from this song.
Blood runs south
as the days grow darker
and this fight is eating at me
I see the dead awaken
My fate forsaken; I'm free
Golden haze, covering reality in an almost tender veil. Illusion. Everything was a lie. Lying down, face peaceful in sleep – longish locks darkening in scented water. Yet another lie. Polished exterior and marmorean skin – dark thoughts hidden deep underneath. Like poison coiling in velvety blood – a wage of sin for the actor on the stage of his life. The world is a stage – a director, he pulled the strings. Restful breathing and soft looking lips – it was all a sham.
A slender hand was lazily resting on the side of the porcelain bathtub – a cat sprawled in comfort. Dark eyes opened slowly, deep voids swallowing life itself. Water moving gently along his frame, caressing his ribs and slim waist, as he levered himself. Staring at the ceiling's fogged mirrors – like those paintings in religious books – perfect picture. It was an illusion. Not Heaven and sweet angels – not, this was Hell... And he was a Prince.
A soft rattling noise at the door – a soft spoken word of greeting. Here stood his most perfect creation – a puppet on his strings. Dark clothes, likened to the shadows he would blend in. He wanted them to be removed... Those magnificent crimson locks – oh how he would grip them to gain access to the soft skin of his throat. Ageless and faultless face turned upward to face him – it was all a lie. Dark lips curled upward – cruel smirk.
"Come, child." Voice like a purr, full of threatening promises – painful pleasures. Servant slowly walking in – faint limp in his steps. Slender and tall – willowy in his own right. Beautiful face marred, dread flashing in golden eyes. The scent of life pounding wildly under his skin, enthralling. Hands holding a silver tray – silver cup and bottle. As he laid it on the low table near the bathtub, a sharp wince briefly distorted his features. The candles' flame cast flickering light on the planes of his face, lighting him up like a broken cherub – his hair spilling on his shoulders like blood. So tempting.
One cold, bony hand reached out to touch the stray strands – and the servant shuddered warily. Waiting for the blow, waiting for the pain. The cold demeanour and concern – it was all a lie. His whole life is woven in lies and illusions. The only real things were the screams that would echo from his broken lips. Dull pain in his hand, throbbing – burning.
Glass of wine – lifted with careful fingers to the light of the candle. Red velvet shimmering like diamonds, rich scent echoing the faint one of blood in the room. He felt it, rippling from the kneeling form in gentle waves. Caressing fear that made him want to touch him. Looking down just once, he took in the delicate, invisible cracks running on his skin – a reflection in the mirror. Pain, hatred never quite showing its fangs and fear – he wanted him – to break his face – mangle his body. Leaving only an angry red blotch on the tiles behind him. His screams would be like music, making his heart beat faster – terror would drip from his pores, intoxicating bitterness.
Oh, how he wished to hear his agonizing plea, to see it – he would wallow in it. Further and further on the steps toward Hell. But he would never take these steps alone – Cantarella and Agathion, offspring of a childless man. His poisoned hand – his opium. Like drug swirling in his lungs, he would take them in.
As golden eyes suddenly caught his, the master knew – Agathion would be the first. He would always be. He felt the mask slowly yield under his fingers – would he break like ice? How would it feel to see him open like a flower in full bloom? Ribcage opened to let out the sweet scent of his rotting life – mouth opened in a silent cry. He would never do that to him – he knew it – he loved beauty far to much to see it defiled in such an unrefined manner. And still, he wondered.
His blood might flow in dark ribbons on his pallid flesh and his eyes would grow cold. The scent of decaying life grew richer - "Come closer, Agathion."
And thus he came, like an animal to the slaughter. One step and another. No words needed to be spoken, a slender hand was extended. Wrapped in bandages, tainted in red – lying half open before the Master's hard stare. Fingers trembled – fear again. He knew – he knew what would befall him. He did not want it. Did not want to. Yet he did. Slowly, carefully, the healing garment was removed.
"This is a nasty gash you have here, oh sweet child." Dark red finger nails scratched the wound – a sharp intake of breath was heard. Pain. Blood flowing from his palm and raised wrist – grim fountain of life. Eyes on the hand of his slave, he took a slow sip of wine. Rich, dark – smooth like skin. A faint hint of spices – reminding him of the man in front of him. As if something just occurred to him, he gave him a slow, coy smile.
"Agathion... this is a bathroom. There is no need for any garments." Molten eyes widened in shock, mouth opening to protest before closing right away. And gently, his garments fell to the ground. Each time something touched the tiled floor, it resounded in the room like thunder – distant yet astounding. Again, he was kneeling, pale body shivering in the almost cold room – he would be so beautiful, flawless.
He was not. Dark eyes looked appraisingly at him, at the blue tainting his skin here and there. He knew his right leg hurt him – but his servant would never move, no matter how badly his body shook from the strain. Slowly, the hand rose again – drying blood darkening his skin like blotches of ink. The count smirked, his painted lips closing in on the gash. Life, young and tainted, made his senses flare with excitement. Tongue darted slowly from between his lips, tasting him. Sweet – he was so sweet. Shattered innocence and broken bones – worn out before his time.
The slave felt his skin crawl, as if his own blood was creeping backward, away from his master's touch. It was not mere disgust – it was terror's horrid jaws closing on his heart through his ribs. He could not breath – he saw the praise in his eyes and this was the most terrifying thing a man could ever see. He felt more than he saw, a nail dragging on his wound, deepening it. The glass against his skin – so cold. His blood dripping – mixing with wine. It danced against the clearer red of the beverage, like a poisonous fairy taunting him. His life fading away in gold – no light but darkness.
Feather of darkness, it tasted so sweet on his tongue. Tangy copper, whirling in his mouth – maelstrom of pain. Nails tracing the shivering jaw – angel forlorn – wings torn... Blood ran in ribbons tying him to his earthly body. He would have been angel – but he never had been. Broken down before breaking free. Bony fingers closing – throat hard, yet so fragile under the soft skin. Addictive as this power was. Power over his life. Over his desires. This boy – he lived without any longings of his own – lived for him, died for his whims. Golden eyes roaming, innumerable hands caressing and tearing that filthy white skin.
The cold was seeping through his bones, chilling his marrow. His Master's gaze boring into his flesh like branding irons. The count was not a merciful man, though he fancied himself as being so. Dark nails grazed his skin – frost in their wake. Fear – hatred – all mixed in dark amber eyes. Those of a prey caught in a trap. There will be no sweet escape – the voice rose again, soft velvet twirling around his neck like the fingers holding him up. "Come, Child." A command he could not disobey, his body moving on its own accord. Rose slowly, almost bashful. Eyes downcast. Step forward – up – in the water. Hot, feeling richer than mere water. Heavy – like a curtain of steel cutting through him. Fall in deep water – mouth on his wrist. Unmoving like the doll he was. The puppetmaster was playing him like he would a toy. Tongue licking – shivering frame. Unwilling lust – that craving pain that drove him insane. He hated it – wanted it. He deserved nothing but that pain. Loving smile – fake. Teeth against the wound – too real. Sharp tug and a cry. Tears falling as his body slowly sunk underwater. Escape the world – escape the pain. Nothing you can do – writhe and moan. Baleful eyes watching. Hunter bent on the still form of its prize. Blond strands shielded his face from prying eyes – his blood was so sweet. Persephone's pomegranate would never taste so heavenly.
The count would never say it – never admit it. But this boy reminded me of a long since foregone past when he was the puppet on a Master's strings. Still he remembered the Cocytus cold skin – silky frost under his finger and teeth like fangs sinking in his shoulder, marking him. Those fingers marked him and he was his. You will become the slave to your own desires. Never will you find what you seek. Oh, but he found it. He found him – a dark slate on which he would write in red. This body – pliant under his nails. He wanted to rip him to shreds, invade the confine of his body. He wanted him broken and exposed – the rotten fruit of his burnt childhood an addictive flavour. Forced his lips open, he felt him going backward – his Agathion never liked his kisses. The count wondered – would he feel different if it were the Zaberisk heir? The thought made him smirk inwardly, whisper hellish promises to his captive. The now recognizable shudders as his hands snaked downward – he could drown him. Push him underwater – he did it before. The sheer thought of the boy's warmth touching him was enough to almost shatter his control. He wanted him and he will have him.
Water gone dark with blood ran in streaks down their skins – paint on porcelain dolls. Hiding them to the world. The struggle and the searing pain. Tears mingling with blood in the cuts, sharpening his senses. He did not want them to – he did not want to feel. His body numb and growing colder and colder – life leaving him. Filling the one feeding on his fear and pain. His spine arched like the branch of a tree in the furnace of a wildfire. Bending and cracking – red hair in his eyes, hiding that fake angelic face from him. He did not want to see, head bowed, fingers clenched. He could not watch – he knew how it would go. Get on with it, bear with it. Go back to his 'room'. Wipe the blood and walk away.
The dark crimson of the water matched his hair so perfectly – the work of a sadistic aesthete. His eyes were clouded... it was not lust – it was not the blazing fire of want. It was another darkness – that of resigned desperation. Bending forward, painted lips to his ear, whispering hurtful words like anthems. The count knew he should stop – his boy was growing cold. His sweet Agathion might leave him for good – he did not want him to. He wanted his boy to stay – never to leave. Like everyone else had. Other tried to flee because they could – the reason why he worked to crush the boy's hopes to sand. His skin reminded me of that of someone else – white, almost ashen. Defiling his boy as he had been. The water not even preventing him from moving, heavy as it was with blood. Hiding the deed with a delicate velvet curtain. Holding him – breaking into him as he had been. A revenge – he could not love. There was no love – his doll might fade. The last straw – control is gone.
The doll would shatter under relentless grip and assault. Giving in – or giving up? Giving in to what? Giving up what? Giving – this was what he did. Giving – blood and life – soul and limbs. And still, the nails would scratch him, the teeth would tear at him – his body no longer his own. Possessed. No will but that of his Master. Such was the fate of all those whose innocence offended the count's sight. Innocence had no place in this world.