"You should really think before you speak, Alfred."
The blowtorch flickered on, illuminating the room with an eerie blue glow.
"I would have guessed you would have figured it out by now."
The blue came steadily closer to the quivering figure on the table.
"Should have, da?"
Fire touched something metal, and that metal glowed red-hot. He continued shaking. The metal's glow brightened, and the torch burned on. The only sound for a while was the steady hiss of the blowtorch, and then a droplet of molten metal formed. A gloved hand gently flicked the bar of heated iron and the little white missile sped towards the restrained man's chest. All Alfred could do was watch as the droplet fell towards him agonizingly slowly and yet all too fast at the same time. When it hit, he watched in shocked slow motion as it splatted on his exposed flesh, and then his body told him—no, forced him—to whimper as his flesh and blood and the painfully chill air cooled the metal down slowly. Shut eyes noted the only glow in the room as the blowtorch flicked off, and yet the tall tormentor moved with the grace of a cat even in that pitch black. The stench of burn filled the room, and Ivan grinned behind the cloak of darkness. He pulled a dulling knife across a block of ice, and pressed it against Alfred's chest. The pained man winced audibly and squirmed, only managing to injure himself further. Ivan swiped a cold, bare finger across the cut and smeared the warm blood across the captive's lips.
"Tastes good, da?"
The captive scrunched his eyes harder and whimpered, not daring to open his mouth and—no, he wouldn't dwell on that. He could go to his head, retreat there and—a sharp cut snapped him out of that.
"Answer me."
The only reasonable response he could come up with was to shake hard enough his torturer couldn't see if he nodded or shook his head, and so he did just that.
"Oh, I see, you haven't had a taste so you don't know."
As Alfred shook harder, Ivan sliced down a particularly sensitive area. He opened his mouth just a fraction to let out a squeak, and that was all the space his tormentor needed to jam a bloody finger in.
"Tastes good, da?"
Two purple orbs, glowing with sinister light, floated inches away from his nose, so close he could see the barest pinpricks of black within the crazed, radiant amethyst. He didn't taste the blood; those eyes held him like a snake's its prey. Some part of him realized he was prey, Ivan's prey, and he shut his eyes again without remembering how they had ever opened. But with his eyes closed, the blood in his mouth became more apparent, and he moved his tongue away that he might not taste it so strongly; but the intruding finger, still ruddy iron, wrapped around his tongue and held it, slippery though it may be.
"Tastes good, da?" echoed around him as the tang of iron filled his senses to the point he could smell it. He was revolted, but a tiny part of him called out it did taste good. No! He couldn't think that! A second finger scissored his mouth open the knife slashed again, and again his mouth was smeared with blood. Free flowing blood, his own blood, ran down his side and puddle around him. He was weaker, now; surely this must end soon. How could there be so much blood? The intruding digits withdrew, and he closed his mouth. Good, it was going to end… But his sliver of happiness shattered when, to his horror, some strange fleshy thing poked out of his mouth, looking to satiate its thirst. That—that couldn't be his tongue! Ivan rewarded whatever it was with more blood. Aghast he could only whimper as his mouth opened of its own accord to receive its terrible treat.
"Tastes good, da?"
His—No- not his anymore- that traitor mouth smiled and hoped for more.
"Tastes good, da?"
Traitor throat formed words, and that little bit of him tugged at him, trying to get him to accept the reality it postulated. For a moment his grip weakened, and traitor lips spat words that couldn't be his own.
"I-it does taste good… D-da…"
The taller man rewarded the traitors, and he couldn't imagine how there could be so much blood. It filled his mouth, and try as he might he couldn't keep from gulping it down greedily, mouthful after mouthful until his stomach was filled with his own blood. And yet it came still, filling his mouth and nose, gushing down to his lungs. And now he was drowning, drowning in his own life, drowning as red filled his eyes, a strange red silence filled his ears, as he breathed in and out delicious red blood, and it just kept coming, trickling down the corners of his mouth as h faded away in a flood of red. All he could hear over the din of rushing blood was his own voice repeating, "Tastes good, da… Tastes good, da…"
Silence. His eyes opened to the familiar sight of clean, white sheets, and his old blanket. He'd just been dreaming. He rolled over, glad to be alive, and looked eye-to-eye with two purple crystals right beside his bed.
"Tastes good, da?"