A/N:Hi... This is a bit darker take on a prompt from the RotG kinkmeme. It wasn't orignally supposed to be that way but it kinda just happened. ^^; I wrote in an older, more Edgar Allen Poe style to keep the story flowing easier. So there's a lot of symbolism in here if you can catch it. Hope it's not too confusing. ^_^

Basically, Pitch is reading The Fall of the House of Usherby Edgar Allen Poe to Jack Frost who seems much more intent on sucking Pitch off then listening. But since when could he ever say no to a challenge?


Fall of the Heart of Crimson

"During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it was -but, with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable; for the feeling was unrelieved by any of that half-pleasurable, because poetic, sentiment, with which the mind usually receives even the sternest natural images of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon the scene before me -upon the mere house, and the simple landscape features of the domain -upon the bleak walls -upon the vacant eye-like windows -upon a few rank sedges -and upon a few white trunks of decayed trees -with an utter depression of soul which I can compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to the after-dream of the reveller upon opium -the bitter lapse into everyday life -the hideous dropping off of the veil. There was an icinESsssssss-"

The long, lingering feeling of teeth sliding tantalyzingly along his cock was enough of a surprise to snap the dark reader's attention away from the story he'd been thoroughly engulfed in. He always loved Poe's work. The mortal had always managed to bring such poetry, such pleasurable terror to the darkness. The man made the darkness attractive. The terrifying spectre had loved tormenting that poor man. His writing was worth the effort.

But the dark spectre had to admit that, despite the pleasurable terror of this -The Fall of the House of Usher- tale, he had to bite his tongue against the extremely distracting terror of a darker, more sensual pleasure. That of young Jack Frost's slippery, warm, convulsing mouth.

Since the beginning of his reading, the younger spirit had taken it upon himself to attempt to drive the dark, conniving mind of the infamous King of Nightmares to the borders of sanity just as the dark lord had once done to one Edgar Allen Poe. Only it would appear the darkness this youth was driven to embrace was a less terrifying black and a more sensual red.

No, crimson.

Yes, crimson. The color of blood that spills from an open wound and pools beneath a dead or dying body. Crimson. The color of the darkest lust that leaves marks of black and purple upon pale skin. Crimson. The color of bruised and abused lips currently parted and encircling the dark spectre's crimson and pulsing cock. Crimson. The color this nightmarish man -Pitch Black- will cover the young Jack Frost in.

Drawing a deep breath and gathering his wits about him, the grey skinned, golden eyed Pitch Black began to read once more.

"There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart -an unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the sublime. What was it -I paused to think -what was it that so unnerved me in the contemplation of the House of Usher? It was a mystery all insoluble; nor could I grapple with the shadowy'" -young Frost's tongued his frenulum- "fancies that crowded upon me as I pondered. I was forced to fall back upon the unsatisfactory conclusion, that while, beyond doubt, there are combinations of very simple natural objects which have the power of thus affecting us," -Frost was sucking, licking, kissing his engorged sacks- "still the analysis of this power lies among considerations beyond our depth. It was possible, I reflected, that a mere different arrangement of the particulars of the scene, of the details of the picture, would be sufficient to modify, or perhaps to annihilate its capacity for sorrowful impression; and, acting upon this idea, I reined my horse to the precipitous brink of a black -AH!"

A soft laugh was heard bubbling forth from the snow white youth currently occupying the floor between the dark man's legs. Lowering the engraved anthology, Pitch beheld the soft face of Jack Frost.

Eternally young, forever frozen at the age eighteen, eyes the color of glacial ice, ages older then could be percieved from just the youth's body, gazed back. A dark, perverted twinkle danced in those ice blue depths. Skin as soft and unmarred as snow glowed like a pure star in the dark shadows of the Nightmare King's layer. Hair soft as feathers and white as the silvery light through snow-laden clouds reflected on snow-covered ground fell every which way as if the wind had carressed it, leaving its mark.

Innocent, pure, white, heavenly, angel, Frost.

Dark, terror, shadow, hell, demon, Pitch.

A pair forged in the crimson shadow of lust and need. They were a pair that made angels weep and demons shriek.

A single, long-fingered hand carressed the pale skin, cupping the pale cheek with seemingly infinite tenderness. "It would appear patience is not a virtue you value, Jack Frost." Golden eyes met ice blue and held them, locking them in a gilded cage only lust could break. "Well then, shall we move to the meat of the story? I hear burying a young woman alive is quite exhilarating. Perhaps more so then your delicious tongue."

Glacial chips hardened and a dark, crimson smirk pulled at ever youthful lips. "Is that a challenge, oh Lord of Shadows?"

Dark shoulders rose and fell in a mockery on nonchalance. "Perhaps."

Grey fingers tightened their hold, tugging the pale youth abruptly from his relaxed sprawl to an alert straining half-stand, half-kneel. Slender, pale fingers gripped black pants on either side of the youthful body in an effort to maintain balance as glittering ice chips melted beneath flesh hoods.

"Or perhaps," the dark voice whispered in a single, pale ear, "it is a dare. No words can you speak, your mouth must be busy on my crimson flash. No sounds can you utter, lest I turn your ear abruptly red. Never can you remove your mouth from my flesh until I finish, lest you wish to glimpse your crimson liquid spill from your heart as you scream my name, moan in pleasure, and feel another orifice filled with my crimson flesh."

Puffs of air glittered as they turn to mist, brushing against a grey toned ear. Pale ocean eyes half hooded, darken as the dark shadow of lust begins to take root in their darkest depths. A fluttering heart, light as a feather and fluttering like a seagull swept out to sea by a storm desperate for rest, but nowhere to land, pounds against the invading emotions. Trying to take hold of what it once held fast. But ice is a slippery Thing. It knows neither friend nor foe. It simply is.

And it can not, will not be denied. Especially if the ice is dyed in the darkest crimson.