Pleasure and pain
Story inspired by RP. Takes place in the 1920s, Romania, after Nicolas escapes the clutches of @marcusofrome
The fresh blood he drank ran wildly through his veins, fear and excitement mingling into something dark and familiar. The establishment suited his needs and the needs of others like him, mortals and immortals. He felt ashamed and still he craved this. Craved something to ground him and help him put back the mask he wore so easily these days. Play a part. That’s all he had to do. Get back into some sort of rhythm of matters. Polish the act he had adopted.
He had been found by a band of clan-less vampires. Some knew the laws, others had heard of the Covens. Nicolas decided to play on his knowledge. He didn’t give too much but asserted quickly a place for himself because he knew the rites and what had to be done. The old laws flew from his lips as easily as he had broken them in the past and he found himself enjoying being asked about interpretations. Still, he didn’t give too much. Nicolas de Lenfent was presumed dead. For the time being, he allowed the tale to follow its course. He was Nicolas Visconti of Naples. His mother was descended of one of the noble families of Naples and his accent helped. Play the part. It became easy. Being himself was hard.
He stepped inside the dark hall and forced his mask to stay still. Don’t betray fear. Force his blood to flow slower. All the lesson taught brought him quicker to the red door and his hand settled on the door knob with ease and calm. Memories he tried to bury struggled to lay low. Memories of blood, whips and course hands inflicting pain. Memories of screams. He had screamed. He had screamed until his throat was raw. Marcus enjoyed his screams. He played his pain for more screams. For more blood. For pleasure and pain and he took them with passion.
I feel your breath I feel something deep in my chest There's something in the way you move I cannot explain I give myself To every drop of blood you've taken My heart remains the same And I'm An utter fool To give myself to you
“What do you desire?” the blood-drinker’s voice before him slithered as he was measured from head to toe. He had learned from an early age to play on his looks. He was slowly becoming vain about his physique. Dressing according to the fashion of this age but still playing it low. Fitted pants, fitted shirts, black. He didn’t feel other colors embracing him like the black fabrics. No more reds or ivory. Black. Everything baptized in the color of the night sky.The color of his soul.
“Nicolas, all you have to do is ask. Ask and you shall receive” the man was joined by another. He counted the vampires present in the room. His eyes locked with the Turkish born vampire.
“What I always want from this place and your services. Pain. Pain and pleasure” he walked past him and began unbuttoning his shirt, steadying his fingers to finish the task. Play the part of confidence although his soul was struggling with everything he felt. He deserved this. Every lash, for every death. Their death was on him. Every treachery. On him. Every drop of blood. On him. Laurent,Eleni, Felix, Eugeni, his Santiago, his beloved Santiago. Butchered, vanished and he still looked for them, forsaking the image of the burnt theater he had found when he returned from Paris.
Nicolas hissed, straining his arms against the shackles as the whip felt on his skin. Tarik knew how to handle the leather and how to the deliver the strokes. Not to strong to brutally maim but sure enough to awaken pleasure.
He moaned as the whip felt again and again against his skin.
“You deserve this, Nicolas. All you had to do was to control yourself. You coward. You would be still be with them. In the arms of Santiago. His death his upon you. All of their deaths are upon you, lad” Nicolas forced his eyes upon as the all too familiar voice found its way in his mind.
“You’re dead” he wanted to sound more confident, straining against a too well skilled whip from Tarik.
“Nicolas, I will always be with you. I made sure of it. Look at you now. Still craving the pain you so well deserve. You will never get rid of me” the mocking laughter of Marcus rang in his ears and Nicolas strained against the restrains, his body chasing the pleasure from the pain. He let himself under Tarik’s ministrations. He stopped counting and stopped caring about time. He bleed and he revealed from it. He accepted the hands gliding against his flushed skin, stirring him alive.
Half a night, step in pleasure and agony before he could put back the mask he had began to wear so easily. He stood in the bathtub, the smell of blood, his and his companions filling his senses. He stood still, watching the men before him kissing lazily. Reaching for a plump hand, Nicolas turned it to meet the wrist and sank his fangs, the warm blood doing its biding. Harden the heart. Harden the heart because he would end up driving himself crazy and he needed his wits and his strength. And maybe of these nights, Marcus voice will cease to haunt him and the cravings will stop and he will be stronger and not needing this sort of treatment. Love himself more. The fact was he hated himself and loved himself with equal passion. And right now, Nicolas was constructing the image he will project to the world. The violinist had burned long ago, the man in love had perished under the whip, the violence and the abuse of Marcus, Nicolas was putting together the man he needed to be in order to survive. All the lessons learned. From Armand, from Santino, from Marcus. Before he could resurrect the man he wanted to be, he needed the man he required for this world.
To every drop of blood you've taken My heart remains the same