Song fic; "Soul Society" Kamelot

Just to clarify, this is a WilliamxGrell ficcy! XD...Because we all love them, yes, I know. After seeing the OVA, and seeing poor William get tentacle raped...*sniffle, sniffle* I kept seeing something in him...Something almost human, and so, here it is!

WARNING; This fiction depicts bondage, self-mutilation, sexual/graphic nature, and homosexual intercourse. Don't like it, don't read and get the hell out of my library you crazy kids! Lolz, jk.

ENJOY!

But serious, this is some pretty graphic stuff.

He tightened his belt around his upper arm; a tight as it could go under the veins were popping up from under the skin.

He was now a fully fledged grim reaper, as expected of him since the day of his conception and his ancestors before him. This was a privilege, he was consistently told as he grew up in perfect stature and perfect education. He had been told he was an excellent student, and excellent example of what it meant to be a reaper. It meant a lack of emotion, a lack of care or interest in the soul meant to be collected. To obey the higher powers he had been born to crawl beneath, as if they were a greater god than himself. Now he knew though, this all was a lie.

Death was the incarnation of one's existence, they began with the death of their mother's womb. If the womb did not continue to allow death to pass through its erotic depths, for children could not be born. If the seed of a man was not at expense when it coincided with its fertile counterpart, he would not exist. Thomas...Thomas...the man he had reaped; the mortal who had penetrated his reaper self. He had no soul, at least, he had been convinced he had no soul. Reapers were of death, that incarnation of human legacy and human tragedy. They were the offspring of Hades, who had been sprung himself from an immortal stomach and then was to the world underground. Reapers were believed to have been lost souls baptized in the Archeron upon the arrival of Christ.

Whether true or not, what he had read did not confirm such a thing.

If my soul could revive
from my carnal remains
what does it matter to me
If it all fades to black
If I'm born once again
then no-one really is free
How could I be condemned
for the things that I've done
If my intentions were good
I guess I'll never know
Some things under the sun
Can never be understood

Aside him were some tools he had taken from the mortal realm; a scalpel, a dull knife, and a few needles. He had removed his clothes for the most part, the only clothes that remained were his pants. He was not stupid enough to wear his formal, work clothes for the mortification he was about to present upon himself. His shirt was removed and a few towels sat under the chair he had secured his arm against. Within the metallic tools lied energies beyond his control, they tempted him like the Christian cross that his kind, descendants of Cameron, twisted into his scythe. Too literal, his erotic fondness of this hobby, as every scythe mimicked a tool used for life to grow.

For he was as a masochist; he enjoyed pain. He hadn't known why, but sharp pain of Thomas' record gliding through his veins...The pain, the humanity, the significance of life seemed so pointless. He had no major affect on any reaping, his existence was futile when there were so many being trained to take his place...To betray him and use him. He was nothing but a vessel, and as depressing as it sounded it was intoxicating at the same time.

He took the scalpel...

How can we believe in heaven
Human reason counters all
Ideas of a soul society
my life is just a fragment
Of this universe and all
there must be more than I can see

Blood was such an eerie red, it was beautiful against white, virgin snow. He hissed, tears in the corners of his eyes. He painted as he delved this scalpel deeper into his arm. It made him feel alive in this depression he found all too intriguing. He had been an excellent student; always curious as to what he could do to achieve perfection. The flawless technique he had worked so hard to achieve had betrayed him. History had chosen many to define the concept of fate, and he was it. He and his species-his dimension- were assigned to observe and act on it's guidance. This was double-sided; creatures of his caliber worked for fate with no spiritual growth.

The blood dripped down his arm and onto the towels like rain onto a summer rose.

In the dark we're the same
In the concept of time
We're like a grain in the sand
And we strive for the flame
As if death was our aim
'Cause we cannot understand

This pain made him feel alive, made him feel emotion that he knew fate would never let him undergo in depth via the beat of his heart. He had been born with no one, no love, just the sole purpose of reaping the lives beyond their control. They were creatures of no purpose, it was pointless to collect souls when life was meant to continue on and on. According to the Hindi religion, souls were put into new castes after they left the body. Why couldn't that be the case? Then again, there'd never been a study on such a thing...He'd never know what would happen if he neglected to reap.

The scum of the earth, the demons, weren't they any more or less gods than themselves? Surely, they were just the residue of human desires; greed, lust, avarice, slothfulness, rage, envy, and vanity; all of which he was silently guilty of. His menial existence enraged him, his lust for mortal opportunities had enslaved him to a life of consistent observation, and his desire to at least one have a kind, gentle sleep drove him to a monotonous agenda. He hated the demons and the humans for this vain envy their limitless lives cast upon him. His young mind unable to process the pleasures he would and would never enjoy in his immortal life.

How I wish there was heaven
All for one and one for all
a flawless soul society
Our lives are just a fragment
Of the universe and all
there may be more than we can see

"I am but a fragment," this was but a prayer he now wore under his sleeve, carving the words in with the scalpel; the jagged angles only making it seem like his own demonic seal. His jaw was clenched shut, loud grunts and pants echoed off the walls of his loft. He was too young to understand what mature fantasies lied beyond this masochistic pleasure. He wondered why he enjoyed this; it was debase, vile, disgusting, and even humiliating. People who had no monetary value were meant to bleed, the depressed, the stressed, the hopeless...Why him, he wondered softly as he took the needles. He jabbed them into the incised flesh of his arm; crimson streams wandering down his arms to form crimson harnesses. This pain was his shackle..."Waiting to be broken"

His shackle to mortality, this pain was the closet thing he'd ever come to an autopsy. The feeling of the still metal of these items, of their almost intangible, vibrating energy, forced his physical form to bend with the cool air around him. He didn't need to breath, but god how it good it felt to breathe. He was aroused by this electric force pulsing through the air, into his wounds, and chilling his spine. His arm was numb, his shoulder felt as if it were static energy. He laid back against the chair...

How could I be condemned
for the things that I've done
If my intentions were good
I guess I'll never know
Some things under the sun
Can never be understood

Sharp edges such as these could not kill him, only weaken him...The blood was leaving his body fast but with the strap on his now numb arm, clotting would soon occur and his arm would be completely regenerated by the morning. His body was weightless, he was a soul...A rip in time, a fragment being reincarnated over and over again with no purpose of self-worth.

For he was a drone...And William T. Spears became a masochist.

How can we believe in heaven
All for one and one for all
Ideas of a soul society
my life is just a fragment
Of this universe and all
there may be more than we can see