@prescit
“Further proof that god is a woman and she fucking hates me. Alright, stone the fuck up we’re doing this live.” They’re beautiful, sure, but the fanged bastards rushing him aren’t going to stop and have a friendly chat over a cold beer. Fortunately for them, he’s too drunk already. Three fall before they have their hands on him, in his hair, nails like daggers at his neck. He’s in irons before his buzz even leaves and hauled away like some common thief. If he’s lucky he won’t lose his hands before they kill him.
“If you’re gonna drag me along on your way back to your cave or whatever crevice you night howling shits crawled out of, the least you could do is give me a good drink to wash the stench of you out of my mouth.” Like walking mouth wide open into an old crypt newly disturbed with the waft of fresh air, he can taste the decay they trail behind them. Stale. Decrepit. Disgusting. Beauty is only skin deep but these ancient horrors are way past their prime.
He gets a fist to the mouth instead of a drink, repeatedly, and when he comes to he can feel the cold bite of stone against his back and the ache of limbs suspended for hours on end. They’re home he supposes and somewhere above his head they’re conspiring some gruesome death for the Last and Greatest Belmont. Ah shit, looks like he had to take a piss in the middle of the night and wasn’t conscious enough to aim.
An eternity passes and- having slept most of it and come to a startling sober realization that this was indeed his greatest fuck up in the history of Fuck Ups- Trevor listlessly watches the dungeon’s door swing wide, a pale light unlike the usual torch lights gleaming its way into his own private sanctuary. This is it. They’ve gotten their collective stubborn heads together and devised the most inhumane way to dispatch Wallachia’s last defender. Whoever is coming to fetch him is the executioner.
They’d better be damn well fucking prepared for the piss-riddled man breathing fire in his chains! The moment he’s lowered off of his prisoner’s cradle however, he’s a weakened toy in their cold clammy grasp, barely able to lift his chin let alone an arm. Movement...that’s all he needs. One good fucking swing on the bastards and he’ll be free. Just...have...to
“It reeks...should we give it a bath before we take it upstairs? Might put the prince off his meal.”
“Fuck him, he wants a clean dinner he can pluck the cock, wash it, and feed it himself. We do the hard work and he gets the best part of the job?”
There’s dissent in the ranks. Good to know. Won’t help him regain his strength with how little they’ve been feeding him. Didn’t want him battle ready? Smart choice. Could have taken on Dracula his-fucking-self if he hadn’t been so drunk that night. Idly Trevor listens to the unhappy grumbling between his guards and uses his dead weight to his advantage. In what little effort it would take them to exert they have to practically carry him up the stairs and down the myriad of halls he’s having a hard time memorizing. But god damn is he trying.
Unceremoniously they stop outside a door like the thousands of others they’d passed by and one of the guards raps his knuckles against the smooth wood. A soft voice calling for entry on the other side. Male. Alarming but it sounds young. Definitely not Dracula himself. Funny to be so offended that anyone lesser would be the one to take the Last Belmont’s life but here he is being carried over the threshold of the room and dropped to his knees in the warmth of a fire’s hearth. It’s far too bright, too much of a difference between the near pitch he had been wrested from. Like they’d shoved him face first into the fucking sun after a year of light deprivation. He can’t seem to get his eyes to adjust.
