#beloc

[alwaysbewoke]

The ulterior motive to keep Haiti in turmoil

[pinkcupboardwitch]

For the WIP ask game, I would love to hear about "Beloc Kitchen Story" :)

Thank you! I had three goals with this one:

1) flesh out Beloc’s character

2) work out Holland and Beloc’s relationship as co-victims (I cannot believe they never interacted in canon)

3) showcase Holland cooking :)

Snippet:

He can feel Beloc’s eyes on him: his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, the apron covering him from collarbone to knee. The question follows soon after. “I did not expect you to do this sort of work.”

“The other servants in this castle all have their minds bound to the king. They can do nothing without his will to direct them. And it is difficult to have people cook when you do not know how to cook yourself.” Holland dumps the chopped daikon and potatoes in a pot, wraps the handle in a damp cloth, and brings it over to the fire, where he hangs it in a far corner so it will cook evenly. He turns back to the kitchen table and wipes his knife clean. “You have more questions. Ask.”

“How do you know I have questions?”

“You are not a fool. Although that question is.”

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Do you have any headcannons for Kell, Holland and Beloc? I think the friendship Beloc has with them is adorable in Endurance!

Sorry this is so late, Anon. I hope you’re still around! Sometimes the words, they do not come.

In the aftermath of the events of Endurance, Beloc’s mother will come to know Holland (and Kell) not as the ‘demons’ they are often said to be, but simply as men who showed her son kindness in a time when he was held in thrall by two people utterly incapable of it. Holland becomes somewhat exhausted by the amount of baked goods she attempts to give him when he comes into town from his place in the woods.

Kell towers over Holland, who is a couple inches taller than Beloc. This often leads to a sense that Beloc has two very tall shadows on either side of him

Beloc and Holland enjoy giving Kell Maktahn wine, which is stronger than Arnesian wine, because he tries so valiantly to keep up with the two of them, and can’t.

The Danes are so convinced of Beloc’s perfect subjugation that they don’t really bother about his magic, as everyone in White London is losing magic anyway and Beloc’s was never particularly strong. This comes back to bite them later on, when Holland and Kell rely on beloc for something very important

Holland has absolutely come into his room multiple times to find both Kell and Beloc asleep after trying to study. 

[orchidscript]

““And when I come back there better not be so much as a scratch on her body and a hair out of place.” - Amid the Ruin Athos :) - Pink

@pinkcupboardwitch you’re vicious, and I love it. This is giving me Ojka as knight-in-training vibes, so enjoy!

1917

Astrid had spent an hour grilling the red-headed girl. Slight and still, she seemed too quick on her feet for someone so short. Flighty, slim. A cat’s weight, a thief’s balance. Not necessarily someone Astrid would have let past the front gate were it not for Holland’s recommendation.

Astrid had allowed it as an indulgence.

Holland was so dull and never argued for anything any more, but he had argued for this young woman. As an asset to the monarchs, for a position as a knight. Astrid thought it was a sweet ploy to bring his rumored paramour closer to him. Athos wouldn’t dare believe Holland would abscond with anyone but him.

Astrid had indulged the placement, and had been pleasantly surprised.

Athos had been unusually quiet as Astrid questioned the girl, tested her reflexes, her loyalty. From the look on his face, he was enjoying the tension, waiting for her to falter. Since Holland had pulled the bitter kitchen boy from Athos’ sight, he had been itching for a new canvas.

Astrid came to rest at Athos’ chair, resting a hand on her brother’s shoulder. “I like her, dear brother. What do you think?”

Athos eyed the young woman with her vivid hair and strange yellowish eyes. Her dancer’s build and quick, light tongue. “I like her as well… Should we bring her on?”

“I’m tempted,” Astrid muses. “It would keep our Holland happy.”

“Holland is technically my knight, so it’s only fair you have your own.”

“Since when is he yours?”

“You know quite well why he’s mine, sister.”

“Ah. Well. I don’t intend on doing the same with this one,” Astrid purses her lips, drumming her fingers along Athos’ shoulders. “I think we should. But, I might have a test… Would you like a cross examination as I go get Holland?”

Athos grinned, sharp and dangerous. Astrid could almost hear the discomfort ripple through this Ojka’s skin. “I would love to, sister.”

“Excellent.” Astrid clapped her hands. Spinning on her heel, she walked towards the door. “When I come back there better not be so much as a scratch on her body and a hair out of place!”

“Trust me, dear Astrid. I’ll save that for your return.”

[slowspinningredemption]

Even Monsters Sleep

Nighttime wandering leads to an unlikely conversation, and Holland has never been one to give false hope.

Read on AO3!

[asianfemaleeatingfooditems]

OC backstory 

i gotta draw more Bel and Blest!

~+~

Etsy

[vestriis]

The Oval Portrait for my boy Beloc

I see that it’s real Loving Beloc Hours, which of course just means making him suffer. Thank you for letting me use your headcanon about the scar on Beloc’s neck, with credit ;)

This fic is 1.3k, and I have also posted this to AO3. Naturally, Athos Dane is his own warning. 

Enjoy!

The Oval Portrait: artist, sacrifice, loyalty.

Sometimes the worst kind of memory is the press of Athos’ body against him. Other times it’s his hands—not just because he hates Athos and wishes that he could have felt the bastard die in his, but because he also feels Athos looking at him.

Like he’s admiring his work.

When he dresses in the morning Beloc tries not to look too closely at what’s been done to him, all of Athos’ deliberate wounds that are no longer wounds, wrapping around his wrists like chains (bands of raised, white skin rubbed raw from struggling) or hanging like a cloak off his back (raised lines crossing over each other like a woven cloth). On his throat is a broken line of a scar from Before, when a man who thought he could do something with Beloc’s blood forced him to his knees and sliced him with a knife. If he hadn’t turned his head at just the right time, he wouldn’t have lived long enough for the skin to scar. (This was before Beloc learned to be careful with his magic. Then, it was just a warning about what could happen if he wasn’t careful—his mother demanding, Do you know what they’ll do to you? before smacking him, then grabbing his shoulders as if afraid that someone would somehow appear in their kitchen to give a demonstration of what they’ll do to you. Then it actually happened. It was a lesson, and he was lucky enough to survive to learn it. Some lessons couldn’t be survived: After, Beloc would realise how lucky he was again.) And another scar from Before: the deep lines running up the bottom half of his left leg, from where he fell through the rotting floor of a mostly abandoned building that he’d followed some cat into. How often was it that he saw an animal that size? His father, while he washed the gaping wound where a nail tore through Beloc’s scrawny calf, said that he was fucking lucky that he was so small, and skinny for his age, because otherwise he’d have fallen through the whole floor, and no one would have found him. He’d have decade, and no one would have even known where to look.

Athos never touched those scars. He really didn’t care about Beloc’s life outside the palace or who Beloc was before he was Athos’. Except, of course, when he made Beloc talk about it, while he was on his knees trying to keep the gasp out of his voice while Athos whipped him, or while Athos ran a cold hand across Beloc’s face, or the sensitive skin on the inside of his thigh; while his hands wrapped around parts of Beloc that no one should be touched while being forced to talk about their younger brother—although Beloc isn’t going to let himself think about that.

Not now; not ever again, if he can help it.

He steps away from where he was standing, as if he can step away from the memory. As if he can step away from Athos, like he couldn’t at the time.

Once, he thought that Athos didn’t care what happened to him at all. When he realised that Athos wouldn’t just execute him, Beloc figured that Athos was just waiting until he got bored and killed him. Or until he went too far and Beloc just died. A few times Beloc thought he wouldn’t be able to come back from how hurt he was, but he had it in his head that if he let himself die then Athos would take his brother as his next plaything, and so he clung on.

Beloc swallows, rubbing his throat. It’s over now. Forever. If Athos came back now, Beloc would be strong enough to kill him.

Although Athos won’t, because he’s dead.

He reaches for his shirt, pulling it over his head, and he’s buttoning up his jacket when he feels something draw him. Somewhere, he knows that he’s wanted, and it’s a not unfamiliar feeling. His stomach sinks. He turns toward the door, not because he’s forced to but because compared to that draw, that pull, everything about his quarters and even the fresh light streaming through the windows—the birds singing for the first time, the bright sky—everything loses its shape and colour, except for the direction that he’s being drawn to.

If Beloc ever looks out through his own window, or up to the sky, and is for a moment jerked out of his own thoughts into the present so that he can stare at how the light falls on the stone palace, or how the snow melts in rivulets on the street, then that’s nothing compared to how the throne room looks now. The sight of Holland Vosijk here, where Athos once sat, is not beautiful, just like it is not a relief, because neither of those words carry weight in his presence. Some tension leaves Beloc’s body as he draws closer to his king, the summons that Holland drew him in with lifting.

When Holland looks to Beloc, Beloc bows, then drops to one knee. (It never feels natural anymore, and he’s too aware of how he holds himself after the number of times that Athos ordered him to kneel like this. And then stand, and bow, and drop to his knee again. And grovel.)

“Your majesty,” Beloc says, pushing at the memories of Athos, although they don’t move.

A pause, then Holland says, “Rise, Beloc.”

Beloc obeys. He thinks it’s of his own will, but he remembers the searing pain when Holland lay a hand over his left eye. It’s a pain that was only ever matched by being bound.

Stupid. You wanted this.

It was Athos that pointed out that Beloc bears some resemblance to Holland—both stand taller than the average Maktahn man, both with dark hair. Now that colour has returned, the difference in their colouring is more obvious. But both have a black left eye, although the darkness in Beloc’s pours down his face while Holland’s sits clean and controlled.

“You summoned me,” Beloc prompts. Holland doesn’t speak much, but the silence as Holland studies him feels wrong. He doesn’t like being studied like that, especially not when the memory of Athos is so fresh that it’s like he’s standing here.

He thinks he can feel Athos wrap an arm around his shoulder, tracing the brand on his chest.

“Is something wrong?” Holland asks.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Beloc says. “You have use of me?”

“Yes,” Holland says, carefully. “It may be a lot to ask of you.”

“I’ll do it,” Beloc says automatically.

“Very well,” Holland says. “I trust you.”

If he wanted to bind you, would you let him?

Beloc tries to ignore the thought. Yes. He would. Holland gave him his freedom. It’s right that Beloc return it.

“How did you know,” Beloc suddenly asks, “that I wasn’t too ruined for this?” His hand hovers over his left eye, then touches the lines on his face.

Holland considers. “You pledged your loyalty to me. I thought you deserved to prove it.”

“So you gave me that chance.”

Holland nods.

“I won’t disappoint you,” Beloc says, thinking of how he could have burned from the inside out when Holland poured his magic into Beloc.

“It’s what you’re owed,” Holland says, and Beloc remembers that it was not just he who was bound. A sudden rush of warmth burns through him as he listens to Holland outline what it is that the king needs of his Antari. He’s pretty sure he’d do anything for this man, and he’s mostly sure that it isn’t because Holland is probably the only person in the world who sees more in him than just the ways that Athos changed him.

[orchidscript]

August Writer’s Month, Day 19

I'm shirking the rules for today. I've changed the prompt and am humbly offering an unpublished section of my fic, Amid the Ruin. A scene between Holland and Beloc, with a sleeping Nasi nearby. Enjoy!

Warnings: discussion of violence and death; allusions to murder, noncon, dubcon, sexual assault. Please be warned, this is a lot heavier than the last few sections have been.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/25635280/chapters/63240940

“I thought about strangling him in his sleep sometimes,” Beloc whispered to the crackling fireplace. He swallowed another mouthful of wine, relishing the warmth seeping through his skin. “Sometimes I’d lay there, wishing I could take one of his belts or the sheets, wrap it around his neck and end it.”

He trained his eyes on the large fire, focusing intently on the sparks and embers. The crackling of tree bark, the way the logs crumbled and shuddered as they burned. How far into the midnight black of the king’s chambers the comforting golden-orange glow extended. 

Beloc did his best not to look at the king, sitting only a few feet away. 

Holland was nearly hidden by the shadows. His pale fingers holding a cigarette and the white bundle of Nasi in her nightgown were the only indication that Beloc was not talking to the shadows themselves. The Dane Twins were many months dead now, but their shades seemed to still lurk in the walls, the gardens, and the darker corners of the palace. Beloc often found himself convinced that they lived in his skin, in his dreams, in his own shadow on sunny days.

Holland had taken to inviting him into his study in the evenings, ostensibly to talk but Beloc always did most of the talking. As the sun set and liquor warmed his bones, Beloc’s tongue loosened. He would spill secret things in the dark, to the fire and the man who was now king.

Holland never said a word.

But Beloc knew he listened. He could tell in the way the older man breathed, in the stillness of his shape in the other chair.

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