This poppet knew how to hedge his bets.
He stood just out of reach from the blood mage. Should Fen have outstretched his arms towards the elf, his fingertips would but just a centimeter away from brushing against his skin. An amused, crooked grin etched itself onto Fen's pale features, while a dark chuckle escape his throat. "It's the little victories, isn't it?" he mused. "They're the ones that'll keep you sane."
Sighing, Fen stood up from the bed, the mattress creaking as he did so, groaning. Of course, he shouldn't expect a poppet to know what to do on the first night. The blood mage took hold of his toy's wrist, bringing him closer to the edge of the bed. "Sit," he ordered, and assumed the elf would do so. He noticed that there was a certain tone that the elf was more responsive to— the emotionless, bland, authoritative voice, one that stemmed from the beast inside of him. His usual whimsy seemed to only frustrate the elf, making him believe he had leeway to talk back to him.
He didn't have that leeway now. Not here, in Fen's ritual space.
The blood mage, sitting on his knees behind the elf, let his eyes rove over his toy's back once more. To be honest, if he had known that this poppet was so scarred, he might've thought twice about bringing him back here. The Collector paid less for toys with imperfections, especially scars; in fact, there had been many a time where the blood mage had to put that damned Collector in check, after seeing Fen's artwork splattered across their skin.
But— despite this catch— why could he feel himself smiling? Was it because the Collector could not blame him for a poppet's scars, for once? Was it because he had free reign over this crinkled easel paper? Or was it because he could practically feel the elf shuddering under his touch— as marble shudders when a sculptor's pick chips away at its form? Yes, as Fen's fingers danced across the elf's skin, tracing scar lines, marvelling at the sloppy handiwork, he could not help but wonder at its history. Who had sliced him so, and why? Had he been a poppet, once before?
He withdrew his butterfly knife, red eyes inspecting the blade. "You've grown quiet, doll," Fen murmured, leaning closer to the elf's back, so that his breath was close enough to skate across the elf's skin. "Don't be afraid to scream. I want to hear those saccharine sounds—" here, he let his free hand slide up to the elf's neck again, caressing his throat, "slip sweetly from your soul."
Smiling, Fen sat upright now, with one hand on the elf's shoulder, the other hand poised with his butterfly knife, its tip aimed towards his toy's back. In a single, sweeping motion, the blade sliced upwards in a horizontal line, slashing through his skin, revealing red rubies. As blood spilled from the slash, Fen hitched a breath, marveling at the sight. Pure ecstasy.