This Game We Play by theeventualwinner

Chapter 1

Hands caress his delicate neck, stroking, winding, soft and lascivious as snakes ghosting across his flesh.

Shirtless, clad only in doeskin trousers, shadows flutter over his collarbones, stark against pale white skin. Muscles flex and relax with every shallow breath, slide over the gentle hollows of his ribs, defined like scripture written in the forbidden tongue of angels.

“My lord”, he breathes, kneeling before the throne, a mesh of sculpted metal writhing in wraithlike tendrils toward the sky; beautiful, obscene. Flaming torches drip cobalt wax across the floor, casting a dim glow about the room, as shade gnaws macabre at the guttering light. 

The hands move slowly upwards, singed grey wandering snow-white tundra. One cups his chin, force his gaze gently towards the fluted ceiling, where velvet drapes and iron metalwork strive for mastery, flint greys crossing midnight black. Obsidian walls stand in silent witness, hung with tattered flags of enemies vanquished, crumpled stars sullen against battle-stained white.

A nail traces from sternum to chin, sending shivers crawling across his skin. Every nerve sparks alive at his master’s touch; at once burning and abhorrent and wrong, and yet so deliciously right. Something carnal stirs, something base growls its lust, inhaling, unfurling; slavering beast so barely restrained howls in its shackles, straining to the critical point, crisis engine of desire.

One finger traces his jugular, pulse so vividly beating, fluttering through his skin. And he moans, low and quivering through gritted teeth, shudders leaping through vertebrae, lancing through muscle, craving so long repressed but now breaking free.

“My lord, I…”

But his speech is stopped, one slender finger taps his lips, pressing hard enough to hurt. It drags downwards, parting them, a longing breath exhaled, lingering soft and shaking.

One hand moves around his throat now, enveloping, encircling, predator grasping its prey. Bones undulate under flesh, ephemeral shadows dance, such fragile structures so easily destroyed with one swift twist. Tendons ripple through taught muscle, anticipating the vital lunge, the final severing of life so brutal and so perversely welcome. He waits, the moment static.

Infinite.

And he exhales a breath he didn’t know he had held, and his eyes flicker upwards, catch his master’s stare and hold it, ((I dare you)), silver challenges molten gold. And behind those brilliant eyes, something smiles.

Nails dig into his skin, piercing, droplets of blood form like rubies flecked on marble, pure and dark and throbbing crimson. He hisses, gasping breath drawn knife-sharp through a clenched jaw, the pain exquisite, his agony made ecstasy. The sudden intake makes ligaments jump, striking bold under his master’s hand.

Blood drips through his master’s fingers, slow rivulets of red running warm and pumping, and how he hated it, a part of himself spilled so crass, so un-mourned.

But how he loved it, this cruelty sublime, some part of him trapped deep down inside uncoiling, awakening, and with claws sheathed in lust ripping up through him, unstoppable, unleashed. And he lunges, pushes back against those gripping fingers, every fibre of his being screaming to stop, ((do it do it do it)), rising to his feet and he grabs his master, lays impious hands on that which he hold supreme, twining desperate fingers through raven hair, and he kisses him.

Lips meet in devastating war, biting, crushing, his tongue scrapes across his master’s teeth. It burns, such reckless passion devours, flames run wild as his master softens, jaw shifting to receive his servant’s gift. Like leviathans spurred to devastating battle they fight, tongues twining beautiful and jarring, white-hot heat tearing through his body, amphetamine lust bursting through him. One hand runs down his master’s robe, unpicking elegant knots of ebony silk, skimming down his chest. He traces the lines of his abdomen, slim muscles flexing under his fingers, sensuous hip bones sliding his grip ever lower.

He hears a purr, low and feral. And he pauses, unsure, suddenly afraid that he had overstepped the mark, unwary hunter dares the tiger’s lair. And he stops, lips still locked against the others’, now blistering, now hurting, and he tries to turn, to pull away, but iron hands stop him, gripping his skull with brutal force.

He feels his master shove against him, a maelstrom of passion and greed and chaos overwhelming, consuming, pouring hot and thick down his throat and pulling up his soul. Caught helpless in the ravening he whimpers; his joy turned to pain, vicious and rending, as his master’s blinding frothing seething embrace crashes through him. Defenceless he can only whine, deep in the hollow of his throat, an animal keening, raw and breaking, his master tearing through him, wrenching through vein and artery. The dream-fever rages as his body spasms in failing defences, his lines overrun, the mind-soldiers slaughtered; the rout inescapable. His master smiles, driving ever harder, god collides with angel to wreak the inevitable bloodstained consequence, the haemorrhage spewing entropy fatal.

I want to break you.

Skin you alive and hang you dripping vermilion across the floor.

My broken angel, whimpering as blood inches over your ribs, scarlet livid on ivory skin and you’re shuddering, you twist and writhe; sinews snap divine.

And then I would seize you, strike home this brutal desire throbbing to its core, you sobbing beneath me as hips roll savage, I force myself inside of you and you take it, and you gasp and you cry but you can do nothing.

And it can be violent, and it can be twisted, you pinned so tight beneath me, taught muscle straining but you’re caught, little lover, you’re mine.

I will break you, and when you lie shattered across the stones I will remake you. I will stitch you back together, red gore-threads sewing such a fragile spirit, my patchwork servant. Shards of broken love, and lust and hate collide, crushed burning together and forged inseparable, until you don’t know, you can’t know what to feel, you lose a part of yourself in me, some delicious masochistic war waged upon yourself and you don’t even know why. You smash yourself against me, the butterfly’s wings so easily shredded, beating frantic as the venom insidious creeps, animal cravings play visceral.

You will kneel bloody before my throne, tears falling slowly down those precious cheeks, begging for me to stop.

You will plead for mercy at my feet.

And I will only grin.> 

And he pulls back, desperation lends strength to failing muscle. Lips come undone, mottled in red he gasps for air and it tastes like metal. He stumbles, faint, keels over backwards onto the marble floor, black shot through with white. He catches himself hard with his upper arms, partially saving a totally undignified collapse. Panting, he spits blood across the floor, slides his tongue across a livid split in his lower lip, wincing as the sting prickles through his jaw.

His master, smiling sharp and mocking stands, and fear flickers in his eyes. With dread purpose his master descends the throne, iron-shod boots tapping gently on the floor, sending shivers through him with each predatory step.

He starts to rise, clamber ungainly to his feet below his master’s sinuous grace, but he feels a nail tap his sternum, pressing him firmly back to the floor, his spine arching slightly against the acutely cold marble. Real terror wells up inside him, and desperately he fights to muzzle it, remain outwardly impassive as his heart hammers its frantic tattoo. A bead of sweat slides icy down his neck, numb paralysis of foreboding dancing through his veins.

His master kneels over him, faint curls of a smirk playing about the corners of his lips. The prey subdued, helpless. He leans forward, golden eyes boring bright into his servant’s faded silver, and lightning flashes victorious behind them.

And he smiles.

A sneer of sick triumph, all incisors and snarling lips, he smiles. 

“How now, little lover? Are you ready to play?”

Chapter End Notes

Author's note: I hope you enjoyed my first foray into real slash fiction. Unlike pretty much anything else I ever write, there will be continuing chapters. Reviews are always treasured, and if you'd like to see anything; a scene, a feeling, a point of view, do not hesitate to ask. I strongly believe in audience participation.