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you loved blood too much by glasslilies
Fandoms: Interview with the Vampire (TV 2022), Vampire Chronicles Series - Anne Rice
16 Nov 2024
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Summary
The first thing your God does after he purchases you in the marketplace is wash your body in his splendid bath.
Series
- Part 1 of armandgender fics
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Bookmark Notes:
The first time you raise the point of your rapier to your God’s throat, he laughs.
You’re still spindly, barely-there, and prone to breaking bones in such a state of undernutrition; so the swordmaster lets you hold a sword and strut around like an overly-proud peacock under the roof of the practice room because you’re your Lord’s favourite boy, and the other alternative would be to let you loose on the streets until evening lessons, unruly child that you are. You first learn to count your numbers in Venetian—primo, secondo, terso, quarto—when the swordmaster runs you through drills that some of the boys learnt when they were less than ten years of age. After three months of lessons, you walk into your God’s bedchambers and prod at him, complete with a complicated flourish you were proud to have mastered. “Somebody could kill you,” you say in your crooked Venetian, that Riccardo had helped you translate. The older boy says you’ve been learning their language fast, for somebody who isn’t otherwise familiar with the languages of the West. Sometimes you still fall mute from time to time, and nobody is more ashamed of those transient moments of aphasic idiocy than you are. “You’re so beautiful, that they couldn’t help but try, out of envy.” Your Master says such things to you sometimes, so you repeat it back to him in compliment.
He’s surprised by the words that spill from his mouth. “Clever boy. Why don’t you try?” your God asks you, smiling, a father humouring his son.
Your palm immediately gets sweaty around the exquisite handle of the rapier he’d selected for you personally before you started training. He watches the point of your rapier dip, in your wavering confidence. “Master,” you say, in a small voice. “I did not mean disrespect.”
Your gleaming God leans on the point of your rapier which is pointing, carelessly, at his heart now. Red blossoms and spreads over his heart. You drop the blade, horrified.
He catches it before it hits the ground and flips the sword, so that the point of the rapier he purchased for you is tilting up your chin. It is a movement so swift that your head spins. Your God has performed strange miracles such as this before, but you’ve often doubted what you’ve witnessed—the madam at the brothel used to say you were half-mad, an idolater born to a race of low peoples, and the barest hint of your mother tongue in your mouth used to drive her to conniptions.
“I’m invulnerable to most mortal wounds,” your God says, studying you with a strange, observant curiosity that makes you feel more stripped than his gentle peeling of your child’s garments in his bed in the night. “I’ve let you taste my blood—you know the power I possess. You’ve healed and progressed so quickly by the grace of my gift. Don’t worry on my behalf, or yours. Nothing can harm us here. Put away your disquieting thoughts and dedicate yourself to the lessons of your teachers. You’re a prince of the city, now. My joy, my pride.”
You climb into his lap and kiss him on the lips, overcome by his kindness. “Is there room for a lesson in bed tonight?” you ask him, desperate to see, once more, the loving look he gets in his eyes when he parts your flesh with the part of his flesh that gets just as hungry any other man’s. Men, you have learned, have large appetites. You hope your God is famished, tonight.
“I’m a slave to your whims,” he says. Your Lord sets aside the rapier. He picks you up and carries you to his bed.