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the_scent_of_lilacs2025-04-25 07:59 pm
smokingboot) wrote in the_scent_of_lilacs2025-04-25 07:59 pm
Entry tags:
Not The Maiden
Rating:Mature
Word Count: 892
Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence,
Categories: M/M
Characters:Orlok/Knock
Additional Tags: Self-Mutilation Oral Sex Occult Sex Self-Harm
Summary: The beginning of Herr Knock's servitude to Count Orlok
They called him names at school because of the mark on his head. It was mostly covered by hair, but he was so blond it sometimes showed through like a blood blister. Just a birthmark, nothing more, but the children could find no other reason to tease him so they chose that one. Poor little Agnus Knock! He endured their torments for weeks, months even, until one of the boys attacked him and then he set his teeth into his assailant's face, tearing a piece out of his cheek. After that no-one spoke to little Agnus at all, not in lessons, not in play. He had no friends but at least they left him alone.
Untouched, he learned quickly, no subject beyond him. Poor little Agnus Knock, but so clever! He began his secret learning too as he grew to manhood. Providence, as he was wont to say, sheer providence that he should stumble across the alchemical works of the controversial student Albin Von Franz. It was said that this prodigy was being dissuaded by his masters from wasting time on alchemy, returning to more plebeian arts through which to express his genius. Agnus could have scorned such a dabbler, whose critiques were pert undergraduate pretensions, but at least they led to deeper scholarly pursuits, wisdom from a time some called darkness, others golden. Was it truly Providence turning the wheels of time and fate? Something else turned the wheel too, but he was too wise to call it god. It was more raw and deadly than anything he could name. It was everything and he... he was chosen.
Sometimes he felt its power, magic and more than magic. He thought it would fulfil him when bedding women, for all the world said this was the most exquisite moment a man could experience. But they were lying and every attempt was a disappointment. Even when successful, he felt diminished somehow as though life had gone from him. He wanted to be full, not spent, to gather in, not flood out. He understood more after reading certain shunned manuscripts that spoke of withholding emissions as a route to perfection of the Great Work. Alas, the women he paid to help him in his experiments misunderstood entirely, however clear his instructions. Having begun to quicken his seed they all seemed determined to finish the job as fast as possible, and mistook his cries of dismay for encouragement. These sessions usually ended in futile exhaustion and occasionally even disease.
There was anguish in it too. One night, he called out though he did not know to whom, and spoke his bargain. For what was life without the ecstasy of power? And who knew power more intimately than a servant? He made the promise then when the moon was deep in eclipse. Within a circle of intricate calculation, he presented himself, carved and bleeding, to the darkness beyond the candle flames. He had been a fool to think the white seed was anything. No, it had to be the red always, the first, the bringer, the blood. Always.
And he was answered. The Prince came, in all horror, all beauty and devouring. Agnus was ready to be taken, drained, reamed and discarded then refilled. He begged, he wept, he made his gift, both testicles clipped out by a lambing tool and thrown into the fire. And the prince, who gazed upon him in disgust, suddenly knelt, threw his legs apart and salved the wound, drinking deep, sucking the hole so clean, so sunken within that Agnus thought the great rotting tongue would unfurl through his innards and find his heart, coil around it, squeeze it til it burst. I am his feast, sang his thoughts, I am the one, I, I am the maiden! He had never known such joy of pain, his body split like an overripe peach, succulent and juicy bubbling on the lips of the Prince. He was only mortified by the swiftness of completion. All his studies had told him how this was meant to be done, that the visitor would drain him unto the last drop and then fill him with its own royal ichor. But the Prince did not do that. It stood back stinking, eyes measuring him. The wound between his legs was dry, but the ache left was indescribable. After all that, he was not the one craved, not the maiden. And yet... though Agnus Knock knew the thing to be a deceiver, yet his heart told him it spoke true with promises of - what did it promise? He could not remember, but he knew his hope. No, not the maiden, but he too would be a prince once he had given good service.
Herr Knock woke as always in his comfortable house to the sound of servants bustling up and down the stairs. Poor little Agnus Knock had done very well for himself. Success had expanded his waist while the birthmark showed more with each year's receding hairline, but he was very content, a man of respect and authority in prim little Wisburg. He would eat his breakfast looking over a list of the day's duties, body throbbing while he smiled. The gift of providence! Sometimes he thought on the vision but it never troubled him. After all, it was exactly the same dream he had had every night for 40 years.
Word Count: 892
Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence,
Categories: M/M
Characters:Orlok/Knock
Additional Tags: Self-Mutilation Oral Sex Occult Sex Self-Harm
Summary: The beginning of Herr Knock's servitude to Count Orlok
They called him names at school because of the mark on his head. It was mostly covered by hair, but he was so blond it sometimes showed through like a blood blister. Just a birthmark, nothing more, but the children could find no other reason to tease him so they chose that one. Poor little Agnus Knock! He endured their torments for weeks, months even, until one of the boys attacked him and then he set his teeth into his assailant's face, tearing a piece out of his cheek. After that no-one spoke to little Agnus at all, not in lessons, not in play. He had no friends but at least they left him alone.
Untouched, he learned quickly, no subject beyond him. Poor little Agnus Knock, but so clever! He began his secret learning too as he grew to manhood. Providence, as he was wont to say, sheer providence that he should stumble across the alchemical works of the controversial student Albin Von Franz. It was said that this prodigy was being dissuaded by his masters from wasting time on alchemy, returning to more plebeian arts through which to express his genius. Agnus could have scorned such a dabbler, whose critiques were pert undergraduate pretensions, but at least they led to deeper scholarly pursuits, wisdom from a time some called darkness, others golden. Was it truly Providence turning the wheels of time and fate? Something else turned the wheel too, but he was too wise to call it god. It was more raw and deadly than anything he could name. It was everything and he... he was chosen.
Sometimes he felt its power, magic and more than magic. He thought it would fulfil him when bedding women, for all the world said this was the most exquisite moment a man could experience. But they were lying and every attempt was a disappointment. Even when successful, he felt diminished somehow as though life had gone from him. He wanted to be full, not spent, to gather in, not flood out. He understood more after reading certain shunned manuscripts that spoke of withholding emissions as a route to perfection of the Great Work. Alas, the women he paid to help him in his experiments misunderstood entirely, however clear his instructions. Having begun to quicken his seed they all seemed determined to finish the job as fast as possible, and mistook his cries of dismay for encouragement. These sessions usually ended in futile exhaustion and occasionally even disease.
There was anguish in it too. One night, he called out though he did not know to whom, and spoke his bargain. For what was life without the ecstasy of power? And who knew power more intimately than a servant? He made the promise then when the moon was deep in eclipse. Within a circle of intricate calculation, he presented himself, carved and bleeding, to the darkness beyond the candle flames. He had been a fool to think the white seed was anything. No, it had to be the red always, the first, the bringer, the blood. Always.
And he was answered. The Prince came, in all horror, all beauty and devouring. Agnus was ready to be taken, drained, reamed and discarded then refilled. He begged, he wept, he made his gift, both testicles clipped out by a lambing tool and thrown into the fire. And the prince, who gazed upon him in disgust, suddenly knelt, threw his legs apart and salved the wound, drinking deep, sucking the hole so clean, so sunken within that Agnus thought the great rotting tongue would unfurl through his innards and find his heart, coil around it, squeeze it til it burst. I am his feast, sang his thoughts, I am the one, I, I am the maiden! He had never known such joy of pain, his body split like an overripe peach, succulent and juicy bubbling on the lips of the Prince. He was only mortified by the swiftness of completion. All his studies had told him how this was meant to be done, that the visitor would drain him unto the last drop and then fill him with its own royal ichor. But the Prince did not do that. It stood back stinking, eyes measuring him. The wound between his legs was dry, but the ache left was indescribable. After all that, he was not the one craved, not the maiden. And yet... though Agnus Knock knew the thing to be a deceiver, yet his heart told him it spoke true with promises of - what did it promise? He could not remember, but he knew his hope. No, not the maiden, but he too would be a prince once he had given good service.
Herr Knock woke as always in his comfortable house to the sound of servants bustling up and down the stairs. Poor little Agnus Knock had done very well for himself. Success had expanded his waist while the birthmark showed more with each year's receding hairline, but he was very content, a man of respect and authority in prim little Wisburg. He would eat his breakfast looking over a list of the day's duties, body throbbing while he smiled. The gift of providence! Sometimes he thought on the vision but it never troubled him. After all, it was exactly the same dream he had had every night for 40 years.
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