Rules: In a new post, show the last three lines you wrote (or drew) and tag as many people as you feel like.
Out of habit, Hector braced himself for that familiar sensation of two large fangs cutting through his flesh like butter. But, ah, he had forgotten: Lord Dracula had no need for the blood of the dead. No longer was Hector expected to gift his life away, when the entirety of it could now be held in the Lord’s hand. Therefore, he startled when his sire’s lips traveled lower, and lower, leaving a devoted trail of kisses down Hector’s arm — the hairs on them no longer stood on end, either, not when his Lord almost scorched his skin and his body melted under his loving touch — until he planted them on the most valuable treasure of them all, sitting on Hector’s finger for all to admire.
Since he could no longer suffocate, the ring would do as a tight collar.
(Too tight, in fact. Hector had to wear it on his pinky finger, rather than the traditional way to prove one’s marriage. The ring was older than he was, meant for a smaller hand. He contemplated scratching the engravings on the inside of the ring, but refrained, in case his new brother wanted the heirloom back, one day.)
Tagging @true-blue-sonic @crusherthedoctor @vyzoi @monochromatictoad @somacruising @frozenkirby93 @simonsquest and anyone who is writing who would like to share! (no pressure if you haven't ofc <3)
And he knew, without a doubt, that Isaac would rise up to the challenge – not for the pleasure itself, but because Hector told him to.
He didn’t so much as have the time to gloat. Isaac pounced on him like a lynx, all claws and fangs and passion burning in his eyes and on his lips: the two kissed, ravenously, tongue against tongue and nose bumping into nose and hands palming at the buttons of each other’s uniform. He fed on his blood dripping from where Hector dug his teeth like a serenade. Isaac was hungry, and even though he managed to flatten Hector against the bed, with a glint of triumph in his feline eyes, Hector also knew that nothing he could carve away from himself would satiate his friend. Not his kisses, not his submission, not holding his beating heart in his hand.
“Well. Are you offering me victory on a silver platter? It’s not like you.” Isaac passed a thumb over Hector’s sore, wet lips, a kiss he couldn’t bring himself to concede. “Where is the fight, the faux stubbornness?”
I’ve grown tired of this game, he nearly confessed, but bit his tongue in time.
He could not say that. It would be tantamount to breaking what little heart Isaac had left. He lived for their games, their tugs and pulls, two children in men’s bodies that still tussled on their beds until one of them gave up and let himself be torn apart.
He would rather skip to the part where Isaac devoured him, already.
But Hector was weak, and as always, he indulged his friend’s whims. So, with a shrug of the shoulder, he simply teased: “I want to see if you’ll do something, for once, instead of leaving all the hard work to me.”
He got him. He could see it in the flash of competition crossing his face.
I was tagged last Wednesday by @wingedknightrose, thank you! But I didn't have anything to show.
So today I started another WIP hoping that I can get something done :P
Tagging @true-blue-sonic, @crusherthedoctor, @monochromatictoad, @simonsquest (yes again), @pancakbun and anyone who has something to share!
And happy new year 💖
The morning sun had always been one of Trevor’s favorite sights.
He gasped, drinking more of its crisp, cool air. The more he breathed, the more the blade pressed against his jugular; Trevor squinted at the rays of the nascent sun reflecting from it, and from hair shimmering silver, swaying in the breeze.
“I’ve won,” Hector declared, out of breath and flushed cheeks as luminescent as the sun behind him. His arrogant grin just as dazzling to Trevor’s heavy eyes. Although, with his back pressed against a tree and in danger of a close shaving, perhaps his judgment wasn’t the soundest.
He couldn’t help but cherish any occasion in which his heart raced and his blood pumped and every muscle in his body burned and he was alive.
Slowly, Trevor moved a hand to his forehead, to wipe the sweat trickling down his temple. Hector’s eyes followed his movement, cautious: and in normal circumstances he would have felt a twinge of annoyance, at the idea that his ally wouldn’t trust him, but he couldn’t deny it… he enjoyed being observed by such a striking pair of eyes, colder than the night giving way to the dawn, but thawed by exertion and the pride of victory. Yes, he didn’t mind at all that Hector leaned even closer to him, close enough that his stare landed on Trevor’s cheek like a caress. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from him, shielding him from the morning air.
“Hah! You’ve won because I let you, Forgemaster,” he laughed, all too aware of the weakness of his excuse. Yet, it wasn’t a complete lie. It went without saying that he couldn’t unleash the might of a Belmont on a human, even one that had taken a step beyond humanity. (Not that he fully regretted striking his whip on every inch of Hector’s skin, back in that cathedral. Had he kept his hand to his side, the two would have never become friends. Funny how his life worked. Besides, it had been quite the amusing tale.)
And Hector had been confident and cunning, quick on his feet with the sword and ruthless in distracting Trevor with one of his little blasphemies. He had nothing to reprimand himself for. Allowing Hector to retain his prowess was the reason he happily accepted to give him a hand… clutched around his whip, of course. Nevertheless, despite his own training, and despite Hector’s urging, he couldn’t bring himself to hurt the other man too grievously. Just enough to split his skin and let the blood flow.
Hector licked his split lip to catch a droplet from a cut, and Trevor’s heart skipped a beat.
“Normally, I would be offended at the insinuation” His eyes darted downwards. “But this time, I can believe you with ease.”
Damn it, he was perceptive when it was convenient to him.
And his pants were looser than Hector’s, to boot.
Another chapter I won't touch until later in the future. But I had a Vision. And that vision is "I really really have a thing for angsty sex for solace", and guess who are the perfect candidates for it 🥰
(the extract is not NSFW though lol. It also takes place shortly after the visit to Isaac's "grave".)
~
Isaac did hex Julia, after all. He’s in death as he was in life: quick to be wounded, twice as quick to strike back.
The air around her crackles with static, prickling on her skin, her hairs standing on end. Yet, the only storm brewing is inside her heart, thundering and hefty.
It is the same unease that had haunted her back when the Curse plagued the land, which would have been cause of mirthless humor, were she in a better disposition.
Do you hate me that much, brother? she asks, when she was sure her eyes caught a shadow of flames flitting behind her. I meant no harm. I never did. What could you possibly want to find peace in your realm, and me in my own?
The candles quiver and offer no better answer.
She is afraid to ask Hector, withdrawn in her books like he hopes to be sucked in, if he too has taken to See the glassy eyes of Isaac’s body. Both answers would weigh on her too much, and burdening him would help no one.
… Julia cannot muster up the courage to plead him to keep her company once more. Even when her bed feels as jagged as a carpet of spikes, and her mind can only flee from Isaac by returning to the embrace they shared, that night. That kiss, that – she loathes to admit to the emptiness of her room – meant more than a jest between friends.
Hector has seen her tears, has he not? Wiped them away, even. That alone should be enough, for her to reach out, and confess…
No. It doesn’t matter how close Hector holds her. The truth is, she is so, so, so sick and tired of crying. Her eyes have dried up, and so has her soul, shriveled to a husk.
Julia is on the verge of the precipice, toes dipping into the abyss, and she only needs to be brave and stop tethering at once, she cannot live like this—
Hector, sweet considerate Hector, senses what is going on. Bound to her by more than a witch’s magic, he approaches her as she is pacing back and forth in the shop, unable to focus on any task at hand; he’s all gentle hands on hers and pointless questions that flow past her and pity shimmering in his eyes like moisture after rain.
She cannot live like this.
Julia plunges – and his lips cushion her fall.
One heartbeat. That’s all it takes for him to melt into her arms, like he, too, was waiting for her to fall.
It is no gentle kiss of two people tentatively finding each other. It is the kiss of the needy, clacking teeth and roaming hands and hungry for something beyond Hector’s taste on her tongue; he overpowers her, pushes her backwards, and she puts up no resistance until her legs hit the counter, and at that, a flame sparks low in her belly, and good thing he is not letting her fall…
“I can’t!”
Until he does.
When Julia opens her eyes, Hector’s are not meeting hers. He’s hunched over, clutching her shoulders like a drowning man holding onto a branch for dear life – but his arms are straight and he’s pushing himself away.
“I can’t,” he heaves. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… I forced myself on you…”
Julia has to tamp down her first instinct of grabbing his shoulders as well, to shake them.
“Hector, please.” And then, again, softer, aching: “Please.”
Slowly, breath by breath, his limbs and grip relax. He still would not approach her. His eyes are still concealed behind the glimmering curtains of his hair. Only he knows what he is seeing, hidden in the comfort of his guilt.
But she wants him to see her. See her.
“Stay here,” she orders, slipping away from Hector’s grasp. “I have just the thing for you.”
“I can’t ask any more of you.”
“Who said it will be for free?” she laughs, ignoring how strained it sounds.
It is easier, to put conditions. He gives her something because she gives him something, all in the name of fairness. That is how their relationship has started, and it is how it has blossomed from the ground. There is no need to change what makes both of them content.
But then, if she is content, why are her guts coiled and she has to suck in air, seized by the shame of taking advantage of Hector? She… she is not, is she? She is doing him a favor, by slamming on the counter one of her most requested potions.
It is not a sin, wanting to be held, and she would not be hanged for it.
“What is this?” he asks, curiosity thankfully snapping him out of his panic.
“Something to calm your nerves.”
Hector uncorks the flask and takes a sniff. Then a double take, his brows knitting together in an increasingly aggravated expression. Her nose, as well, is invested by the scent of ginseng and dates.
“This is an aphrodisiac,” he sentences, eventually, and Julia almost giggles at how quickly he has regained his vigor, before even drinking.
“Oh? You are familiar with it?”
“I never tried it,” he hastens to specify, almost insulted. “Dracula’s castle teemed with witches and succubi. Some portions of the dungeons reeked of this smell, and Isaac—” she starts at the name—“wouldn’t get near me until I washed my uniform.” He eyes the tincture with suspicion, although Julia cannot tell whether his disgust lies at the very concept, or his own experiences. She hopes for the latter. “So, how much does it cost?”
Her joke is flung back to her, and for the first time, she regrets it. It’s not quite as funny as it used to be, now that she knows that Hector would give her the moon if asked. She cares not for it, or the world itself, or any riches she could be offered to live a cushy life.
She only reaches for his hand, and squeezes it. Under her thumb, she counts all of his calluses, the ridges of his bones, the rhythm of his heart.
“I don’t want money, Hector.”
She’s not able to be clearer than this.
“Ah.” Tacit, cloudy understanding flashes behind Hector’s eyes. It is a luxury, and it terrifies her, to be seen with such ease. He brings her hand to his lips, sealing a promise on the back of it. “Very well, then. As you wish.”
With her free hand, Julia massages her chest, taking care to avoid what is hanging on it. Hector’s pure, flat devotion does not bring the peace she craves. She might have pushed him too far. She would never forgive herself if he… She’s not used to being given…
Hector lets go of her hand. Then, he grabs the flask with such force that for a split instant Julia fears to hear it crack, and downs the contents in one swing. There is a tremor, in the way he slams it back on the counter. But her attention is caught by the moist shine on his lips.
How disgusting she is.
Thankfully for her, Hector has not finished the whole potion. About half of it still swishes in the bottle, shimmering and inviting: that is its purpose, after all. Not thinking, refusing to do so, Julia snatches it for herself and quenches her thirst: the sweet flavor coats her mouth and throat, and burns down to her stomach, swallow by swallow.
There are traces of Hector in it, too. It could be her imagination, or it could be the memory of her older sisters in the coven, teaching her that aphrodisiacs bring to the senses the scent and feel of the one you desire the most.
(Or was it love? She can’t remember.)
It doesn’t matter. The one certainty, warming her up down to her fingertips, is that she needs more of that taste.
“I wanted this for a long time, now. I’m sorry.”
Julia cocks her head at Hector’s hanging words. “This?”
And he lifts his head like a condemned man facing the noose, and he utters, only for her ears: “You.”
She can’t accept his contrition. Not when the confirmation snakes and slithers low in her abdomen and bites and it’s enough to make her soar and pull Hector for another kiss of absolution.
So he, too, was too scared to fall. Now, they can plunge hand in hand.
Why should Julia heed the hate of the dead? Come take a look!
I drag my body on top of his own, smearing our bloods together in a mockery of the blood path that has bound us for years. But Hector is not done shedding his. The Chauve-Souris is left clattering on the grass: I could shatter his chest with it, but Lord Dracula’s favorite doesn’t deserve the death I give to the common fools. No, I will slit the traitor’s throat like an animal to the slaughter, and I’ll watch him bleed out, a sacrifice to expiate his blasphemy.
Hector’s eyes flash in conjunction with the blade of my knife, but other than that, he offers me no satisfaction. He never did. Superior Hector, carrying himself through the castle with the airs of a prince, all too aware, if not relishing in the rabble left in his shadow.
Well, Hector, who’s under me, helpless in my hands now?
“I’ll confess something to you. My Lord,” I hiss, and taste the emphasis on the first word, “has asked me to bring you back, to deal with you as He sees fit. But after what you did, you don’t even deserve to be in His presence anymore. Besides, you do know that the moment He discovers that you have rejected Him as your Lord, death will be all but liberation for you.” I show him my teeth, licking away the blood from them. “So I’d just do you a favor. As a friend.”
I spit the last word coated in venom. Oh, but my anger is not directed at the man below me. I have been the fool, haven’t I? To have believed that a friend could exist in this world, when creatures like us are bound to only have enemies and slaves. Lying creature that he is, his demise will be thrice as painful.
Then, getting rid of him will only be good and just. I will be able to serve Lord Dracula with my body and soul, and He will at last see me, with nothing, no one in my way.
I grip the knife more tightly, before it slips from my sweating fingers.
“How touching.” Hector’s murmur is carried by the rain. “You still care.”
“I care more than you could ever fathom. About my Lord. About His cause. About the life we have built together. About…”
The ache in my ribs flares.
The knife embeds itself into Hector’s flesh.
Hector’s heavy, but slow breathing reverberates through the weapon: still, he refuses to make a sound. The blade grazes his throat: beads of blood well up and trickle down his neck.
I wonder what it tastes like.
Foul, most likely. Befitting of scum like him.
“I know. You are one of the most loving people that I have ever met.”
“Pfft. Not that you would know what it means, you selfish, treacherous bastard.” I hover closer to him, until Hector’s repugnantly angelic face is all that my eyes can see. Even when caked in mud, his hair shines, blessed by the moonlight framing our chattering. How I have always despised those eyes, piercing like those of a white wolf: I will gouge them, so that no crow can peck on them.
“You may have been able to worm your way into Lord Dracula’s good graces with your flattery and your brown-nosing,” I whisper, buried in that hair, “but I have learned from His one mistake.”
And Hector twists his own knife into my gut: he chuckles, a low, long, broken sound, half cough, half mockery.
Adrian had been taught, back when his father carried himself with reason and dignity, that he was the prince of demons; and therefore, it was up to him to stand above the masses of beasts that crawled on the ground.
He had taken it as partaking in drinking as little as possible. Father was not quite proud of him.
Then surely, he would be pleased that, in an ironic twist, Adrian has at last accepted that his only dignity is granted by the indulgence of his beastly instincts.
Like a moth drawn to a flame, Adrian returns, again and again, to Hector: in the dimmest corners of the library, at the washing edges of a pond deep in the forest, hidden by the statues of the chapel, it doesn’t matter, as long as he is here. Hector is remarkably gentle with a monster such as him, patient with his increasing cravings.
Beguiling, as well, in the way his fingers work the buttons of his collar with dexterity. He does not hide a smile that ill fits a servant resigned to his duty – or his sighs when Adrian takes what is being gifted, and for an eternity that lasts too little, Hector’s cursed blood is the only warmth that trickles down his body.
Adrian does not want to burden him with himself. He always retreats his teeth before satiety, while his body still cries out in anger. And a more visceral, twisted emotion, at the sight of his own marks, his own scent replacing that of Father on Hector’s throat, quickly covered by his armor.
I am not using him. He wants this. I am not like him.
Adrian avoids Father’s dead eyes when forced to stand in the war room, to be safe.
And when he has to, he runs back to Hector, again, and again. He seeks him often, not only when his throat starts to tighten and scratch and his claws grow from their nailbeds, because a new hunger has started to gnaw at him, one that no mere blood can relieve.
After all, if he is already a beast, what is stopping him from drinking from Isaac as well? No matter how deep the hatred of the more ferocious Forgemaster runs in his veins, he is still bound to obey the Prince. Adrian could force him to rip his collar open, if he wanted to, even to slash his wrist if he were so inclined…
(Mother, Mother, help me, why do I have these deplorable thoughts? Is my soul being tainted?)
But it is not power, that which he craves.
Hector’s strong hands, clutching his shoulders, dull nails digging into the brocaded cloth. The breath washing over Adrian’s ear and hair, at first quick and shallow, then slow, serene, at ease. The small noises that bubble out of his throat, reverberating through him, plunging straight into his gut.
Adrian had missed, the comfort of being held.
He lets Hector rest for as much as he needs, after feeding – and it seems that he needs a couple of minutes, lost in Adrian’s arms, nose buried in the crook of his neck as if he too wishes to return the favor.
Part of him wonder, how it would feel to have your flesh pried open to offer your life. If there was someone left in the castle Adrian would accept to do it for, it was the only man who did not look at him with the awe reserved to a monster.
Where the waterfall cascades and splashes into the pond, the light refracts in a rainbow.
It is the first detail that catches Julia’s eye, because it is so delightfully maudlin, she almost expects butterflies and fairies to flutter by… much like the ones that have been agitating in her stomach. But she can’t deny the earnest beauty of it: it is already a small miracle that there is enough water and light to create such a lovely view.
From the cracks in the arid rocks, tiny flowers and blades of grass peek out, and color in various hues the soil that the Curse had left barren, from the white of daisies to the soft blues of the forget-me-nots. The downy clouds in the sky are not enough to block out the rays of sunlight, that forms spots of warmth on the ground and glistens on the water, that flows peacefully underneath the wooden bridge which looks to have been repaired.
It may not be the lushest of places, but the plants still carry with them the scent of hope.
And, best of all, there aren’t any more spirits to haunt him in this spot!
“You sure know how to pick a place,” Julia laughs, sitting properly on the cloth to make sure her dress isn’t ruined, and opening the basket overflowing with food, whose aroma already makes her mouth water. Hector, not quite as proper, opts for sitting on the ground, near the shore of the pond. She could read the temptation in his expression.
(It would feel nice, to dip her toes in the water like she used to when she was a little girl. Even if it’s not with Isaac anymore.)
“I’m glad that you like it. It was what I was hoping for.”
She cocks an eyebrow at the odd wording. “Well, I do, but… what do you mean?”
A cloud passes in front of the sun. Likewise, a familiar shadow casts over Hector’s eyes.
“If I may be frank… I proposed this…” Rather than defining his own idea, Hector vaguely gestures at the location; Julia swallows a pebble of disappointment, “to lift your spirits. I know all too well how the four walls of your home may feel like a cage.”
Julia doesn’t need to see her own reflection in the pond to know that she is mirroring Hector’s grimace. Caged? She crosses her arms tightly in front of her chest, not liking Hector’s assumption of her, and not wanting to think of the nights she has spent pacing around her room.
“So I thought that… a breath of fresh air might…”
“Oh,” she decides to interrupt him with a smile. “I appreciate it, but you don’t need to worry about me, I’m fine.”
Hector doesn’t reply. She can’t blame him, after hearing how flatly her own voice rose out of her throat. Part of her waits to see the man shrug his shoulders and serve himself from the basket, indulging in what she had prepared for him, even though she knows him by now and he would never turn her back on her even if she wanted to…
… instead, Hector leans forward, closing the distance between them.
“Ah?”
Her vision is nothing but his eyes, sharp and attentive, boring through her like ice shards. Warm breath huffs on her lips. Is he… no, he didn’t want, that night… did he?
He passes a thumb under her own eyes. The contact spreads through her face, and chest, as rapidly as her heartbeat.
“I apologize. I was sure to have seen something… it must have been a shadow.”
Oh. Cheeky.
Yet, despite all her might, Julia can’t muster up any annoyance at Hector’s smirk.
