Hunting, as it were, was a dog’s favorite pastime.
And he, the greatest servant of Hellsing, excelled at it. It was a
rush to his long-dead yet hyper aware senses— the smell
unmistakable; the messy slaughter of human blood and flesh. This
filth that dared to carry the worthy name of his breed… He took no
distinct pleasure in what he did. Nary and ironic reflection of the
human’s sins nor a poetic justice to be found. Simply feeding… why,
he was no better than the ghouls that he controlled. No; he was worse.
For at least the ghouls killed for themselves. This slovenly sack of
undead garbage used other vassals to do his dirty work; like a great fat
king taking victory by the hand of his soldiers’ and claiming it as his
own conquering. Such a disgusting display of false power. The Count
would take great pleasure in wiping the wretched filth clean from this
plane of existence, of that he was certain.
And enjoy it he did: enjoyed dropping the vermin down to his knees
before the woman who had proven herself worthy to serve as his
Master, enjoyed his raging objections and indignant protestations,
relished in the smell of his blood and sweat pooling at every pore, ripe
for his harvesting.
But, what came unexpected (although equally as pleasing) was
the extent of Integra’s enjoyment of the matter. If there was one thing
that the No-Life-King was well versed in, it was blood. He was like a
great terrestrial shark, able to detect even a drop on the wind a
hundred miles away. He was capable of telling the nature of a man by
the mere sense of his blood, and not a single ounce of it went
unaccounted for beneath the discerning eye of his senses.
Did she think that she could hide it from him? The rush of it as
adrenaline bled through to her veins and pounded through to her heart
and head… the tip of his tongue traced behind his teeth, following every
drop of it that had rushed to pool beneath her eyes. Such an
insignificant thing in the dimly lit hovel… to a mere human, it would
have been nothing. But it couldn’t pray to escape Alucard’s
omniscience; the short draw of her breath as her accelerated blood
rate begged for more oxygen to compensate, her blood… her sweet,
steely, unperturbed, merciless, delectable, unquestionably virgin
Hellsing blood— rushing like powerful rivers through the rivulets of her
veins.
…Aaaah… well then… since she was enjoying this so palpably,
he would provide her with an exquisite finish…
❝Yes, my Master.❞ He drawled in a voice like crushed velvet,
releasing one of the wretch’s shoulders from his gloved hand. He
spread his fingers, flashing the full and unfettered seal of Cromwell
that adorned the glove to the last Hellsing’s eye— a sly and utterly
vicious display of her ownership to rile her senses, before placing his
two forefingers between the snarling teeth of his— no, their target.
Parting the meshed jaws of the faux vampire, Karl’s eyes grew
wide and bloodshot as Death gazed down upon him, brushing one
gloved thumb over the cracked chap of his lower lip, filthy and matted
with day-old devoured blood. The irises trembled, his jaw tight and
immobile in a lock of sheer terror. Was he only just relinquishing his
pride long enough to realize his own demise? What a fool— he truly did
deserve to d i e .
Fingers gave way to knuckles, paving the path past the victim’s
teeth for his stern wrist— a pity, he’d need to enlist Walter in washing
his gloves clean of this wretch’s filth upon returning home. But his
mind was not home— it was here, in the moment, in the exquisite kill,
in the fire reflected in his Master’s eyes as his forearm split the
difference between the detained’s jaw. The bones in his maw popped in
an audible cacophony, like an orchestra to the Nosferatu’s ears as he
forced his arm farther down, fingertips brushing past the shuddering
uvula and traipsing lazily down the column of the throat. Blood began
to pool and bubble up through the suffering’s throat and spilled over his
widespread lips, curling down his split cheeks and staining the trump
card’s crimson cloak a darker, more sinister shade of rouge. It was an
even more resplendent sight from the outside, watching the flesh
around his red-clad arm bulge out in an unnatural girth. Karl’s limbs
twitched at his sides, frozen in pain and horror, his eyes convulsing in
his skull so violently that for one heady moment Alucard dared to hope
that they might burst from their sockets! But it was so much more
beautiful to watch, to look him in the eye as cotton-clad hand found its
morbid destination.
He cupped his gloved palm around the erratically throbbing source
of the unworthy trash’s undead life force, and only upon a strangling
squeeze of the screaming organ did he spare Integra a glance over his
shoulder; and that gaze communicated more than a single word ever
could. It was a relish, a passion they shared in the silence surrounding
their target’s muffled but oh so potent screams of anguish and due
suffering— he could hear the tells in the rush of her blood, the pounding
of her heart as his own hand seized around the respective vampire’s.
Did she relish the deliberately slow, volatile procedure
of his kill carried out under her command, in her name alone?
His arm’s retreat was as unhurried and divinely horrible as it’s
advance, the ventricles of the heart he held in his ancient grasp
snapping and collapsing around the organ that had been rendered
useless, torn clean from its cavern and drawn back up through the
narrow passage of its hosts throat in the clenched palm of Hellsing’s
harbinger. Once his grasp had reached the base of the vampire’s
dislocated jaw, he finished the macabre execution in one mighty jerk
of his bloodstained arm, thrusting the bloodied heart from the mouth of
the undead’s skull in a sickening splatter of blood and bone. The sound
was stomach-curling, the backlash of his own arm peppering the walls
and ceiling. The resulting vampire was a hollow and broken shell of
undead flesh, fingers locked in a painful arthritic curl at his sides, his
back arched back from the force of the agony endured. His neck was
bent back at a painful angle, and his face (or what was left of it) had
been reduced to a split monstrosity of teeth and sagging tongue, a
fountain of tainted blood pouring from the torn seams. Blood provided
muscle with strength, and the heart distributed this blood… and, without
this vital organ, the shell of a vampire that once was fell back and
collapsed upon his back in a sickening, blood soaked thunk.
As Karl’s knees left the ground in his backwards descent,
Alucard’s right found the ground before Integra’s feet, his wild, obsidian
crown bowed in sick reverence as he proffered up the still, blackened
heart he clutched in his gloves— stained with the blood of countless
murders, slaughters and victim’s of war. Far more blood than all the
anointed water in the world could ever hope to wash away.
stormborns
andulkaphoto
tangentwithtanner
janainaart
yousharknotpass
dededos
