[A STORY :B]
Oct. 26th, 2012 11:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
toothsomehoundLying in bed one night, the heat of passion cooling in his body, Alucard listened.
He heard the rhythmic beat of Cross’ heart, the soft calls in his sleep the man made when he was lost to the world, lost in sleep. He turned on his side and Alucard heard that too, the soft rustle of sheets and the muted sound of slight discomfort as he moved. A curl of territoriality tickled Alucard then; he chuckled and kissed the back of Cross’ head.
The night was cold, but the warm, grim, grinning faces of jack o’ lanterns decorated the night outside. Day after tomorrow was the thinnest day, the day of Halloween or Samhain or whatever else people called it. According to the human calendar, it was actually three days to go, but Alucard could feel it. Any being beyond the pale could feel it. It was as physical a sensation as touch, the whisper of a fragmenting barrier. He longed for the day of that ultimate fraying as much as he regretted the inevitable fresh re-weaving that came after. It was a wild day, echoing with the howls of the faery hounds on their hellish hunt, rebounding with the calls of spirits visiting home, resounding with the screams of winds breaking their chains in preparation for their deep winter prowls.
He had used Cross gently tonight, knowing how much the man hated and loved when he was handled as something precious, something desired that needed wooing. He had taken his time scraping his fangs down Cross’ body, leaving raised red lines that never bled (but would still leave scabs the next morning), and he had taken time bringing Cross to his finish, never succumbing to the man’s pleas for mercy. It was important, he felt, to not always give Cross everything he asked for. (Or worse, to give him things he’d never asked for at all.)
Well. Not immediately, anyway.
Cross shifted again, this time flinging his nose into the nape of Alucard’s neck. Grunting in irritation at finding an obstruction in bed, the man turned again, heaving a happy sigh when he found a cool, empty space in the mattress.
Alucard turned a speculative eye to the priest sprawled next to him, raising a hand to pet down his bruised back. It made him burn with irritation, that the scabs and smears of black and green weren’t caused by his own blows. He wondered if Cross felt vexation at the fact that none of the injuries he inflicted to the vampire lasted. Knowing how often the man was the one to start a fight with him, the answer was: probably a lot. If he ever came across the Noahs Cross muttered about sometimes in his sleep, though... well, they would find an entirely new reason to doubt in God’s existence.
His hand slid down lower, to find Cross’ rear. He gave it a cursory squeeze, then, in a moment of impulsivity, rolled over to cover Cross’ prone form with his own. He smelled dusty, in the way of men (ashes to ashes, dust to dust), and also terribly vital. He was half-tempted to bite the man and let him wake to that- but a better idea occurred to him.
The shadows shifted, wriggled, and suddenly they were a thousand tendrils and five, fetching what he’d demanded from them. It wasn’t a noble use of dark, inscrutable powers borne from only the deepest wells of magic, but then again, some might argue that neither was killing people with them.
Alucard examined the little metal tin fetched for him with relish. He peeled Cross’ legs apart with persuasive, sweet hands, pinning the man below under his chest in a careful balancing act. The man stirred, brow furrowed, but Alucard whispered in his ear (“hush, hush, it’s only me, love,” and he told himself that Cross would only hate it if he called him that and so it was fine, fine) and he calmed. (What man would calm to a vampire cooing in his ear! Alucard asked himself, and imagined Walter before trying not to.)
He slicked his fingers, then reached down, at first to simply massage Cross’ entrance. The priest wet his lips, shifted. Rolled his shoulders a bit. Alucard rubbed a bit more, lowered his mouth to the shoulder under him, and bit down softly, merely a scrape of teeth. Cross sighed and relaxed. (God but what was wrong with either of them!) Alucard waited a bit more, counting Cross’ breaths, heavier now with Alucard resting on him. He massaged again, adding to the slickness of Cross’ entrance, and then, in a slow, almost tentative movement, breached him with one finger. He waited, spine tense, for anything from a grumble to a punch to the face. Nothing came. Instead, Cross simply tensed a bit, then went limp with a faint mumble.
He became bolder. He worked at the man’s entrance with one finger, then two, and then three. Each time, he held his breath, waited, but Cross didn’t wake. He stretched him as well as he could, his own cock growing harder and harder until it was difficult to focus on anything but the demanding tension between his own legs. Finally, he gave an eager shudder and pulled his fingers, one by one, slow, from the other man. He waited, listening to Cross’ breathing, and when he didn’t so much as flutter his lashes, he gave an arrogant, pleasure-heavy purr and leaned down to rest one of his own broad hands over Cross’ calloused, handsome ones.
The other hand he used to position himself, and he pressed in with his hips, a quiet flex restrained by tremulous excitement at what Cross’ reaction would be. Would it startle him, to wake and find himself spread open on Alucard’s prick? Would he fight Alucard, try to elbow him off? Would he shake and moan and come undone like a whore? Only one way to find out, he decided, and slid himself into Cross in one hard thrust. His other hand flew to restrain Cross’ yet-free one.
The effect was instantaneous; Alucard would have expected no less. Cross’ eyes flew open, his back arched, heart racing. In that moment between sleep and wake, confused but wild with ferocity, eyes fever- or madness-bright, every muscle in his body straining, he looked so beautiful that Alucard’s heart did something terrible and dire-feeling- if he had still been a living man, he would have said it stopped. (But he wasn’t, and so it couldn’t have.)
Cross pulled against Alucard’s hands holding him down, making an animal, angry noise, hips shaking and bucking. Alucard held on with a wild laugh, taking the chance to further secure his hold, to use Cross’ own movements to drive his cock deeper into the man’s wildly-fighting body. He mouthed at the back of Cross’ neck, and then, allowing a fit of instinct, bit him soundly there.
Curiously, the bite made Cross shiver and shudder, mouth falling open in a wanton oval as his eyes fluttered shut.
“You fuck,” Cross grated out, hands clawing at the sheets, fighting his own body as it eagerly began to work with Alucard’s to wring pleasure from them both. “You fucking- augh, oh fuck, jesus,” Alucard shuddered, excitement racing through them both, “jesus, god, fuck, yes, harder, harder, beast!”
Alucard reared and braced himself against the headboard, releasing Cross’ hands to do it. He wondered curiously, in the part of himself not currently preparing to nail the man into the mattress, if he’d take the chance to run.
He didn’t.
He began to fuck Cross as hard as he could, having long since learned what kind of force the man wanted when he asked for more. The glorious heat of him, the slide of flesh on flesh, the tight way he screamed as Alucard slammed home again and again, the jerking twitches in his thighs as he got closer and closer to orgasm and the thick smell of his arousal and the musk of his sweat and the way he writhed and clenched hard around his cock--
it ruined Alucard. He growled, groaned, shook like a wolf in the rain and released the headboard to rut into Cross quick and close. He clawed at the priests’ sides, bit his neck mercilessly, thrust into him so hard he hoped the man would walk funny for a week- and none of it was enough.
Even as he came inside Cross, even as his breathing slowed and stopped again, even as Cross smacked him, punched him, threatened to shoot him and then pulled himself off Alucard’s softened cock, even as they settled to sleep again...
It wasn’t enough.
Later that night- almost morning, really- Alucard woke again. The sun was creeping over the room delicately, like a shy virgin entering her bedroom on her honeymoon night. He eyed the bright burn of Cross’ hair as the sun lit it up, savoring the color as if it were blood itself. Looking carefully at the way the priest had turned to curl against Alucard’s body, he could see the broken skin inflicted by his teeth. It soothed the disquiet in him, and that startled him. (Though he looked back and wondered why that should have been anything but common sense.)
He made up his mind that night, feeling the thinness of the world whip around him. It was one day to the time of spirits and wild hunts and death. It was one day to.
On the day (and this wasn’t his planning, but it was Cross’ unwitting interference), he slept particularly deeply. It was a good day to be close to the world of the dead, and that extended to all things. The time when the barrier was broken was refreshing and wearying both. Alucard could remember grand court parties, when vampires were populous and noble and proud. Rich costumes and fabulous decorations, sumptuous feasts and beautiful servants: all of that and more for the princes and queens of vampires!
On the day, he didn’t wake quickly. There was a strange sensation in him, something that sparked brilliant shudders down his spine. He wet his lips and then, brow sleepily furrowed, wet them again. It didn’t hurt, but it was... It was... he knew this feeling. His hips rocked up, legs spreading wider, and his head turned up to bare his throat automatically. Alucard hazily cracked an eye, then another. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised, so he wasn’t. Instead, he studied Cross, naked and fucking him awake in mild little hitches of his handsome hips, with a degree of puzzlement.
“I thought I’d better show you how to do it right, you old bastard,” Cross explained, brow furrowed in concentration. “Figures that you’d even suck at fucking a sleeping person.”
Alucard was too sleepy yet to respond, though he felt it prudent to mention that Cross certainly hadn’t thought he’d sucked at it the other night. He pressed the thought into Cross’ mind vaguely, eyes shutting again, head dropping to the wood of his coffin, as he surrendered to the delicious feeling. It wasn’t like Cross to take him like this; hell, it wasn’t like Cross to take him in the first place. He, like Cross, enjoyed pain and pleasure in equal mete.
“Yeah, yeah, shut up,” he heard Cross mutter, not unaffectionately, before lengthening the depth of his thrusts. Alucard keened softly, raising a shaking hand to Cross’ head, smoothing his hair before dropping to his neck, then his shoulder to finger at the still-bloody bites he’d left the other night. He swallowed, gasped, twisted his hips and tensed his body around Cross on each pull back. The priest muttered something affectionately furious, dragging himself out of Alucard only to thrust in again yet more slowly. It was like drowning in heaven, bedding with Cross.
Alucard could see a jack o’ lantern behind Cross’ head, which was the only light source for the room. They fucked quietly in the warm glow of the candle inside, Cross eventually dropping down to loop his arms around Alucard’s and screw him that way, putting his entire weight behind each motion. (And Cross had asked him once why he had such a large coffin. Foolish man.)
It was dangerously close to making love- in fact, it was making love, but Alucard wasn’t going to point that out to Cross. It was the day of, and he had made up his mind.
When Cross finally spasmed and shuddered inside Alucard, the vampire sighed a single noise of pleasure and relaxation. His hand crept up from Cross’ bites to the lid of his coffin, impossibly heavy for a human to lift. It was a courtesy to Cross, that he left it open.
“Not bad,” Cross said, face muffled against Alucard’s neck, “for a dead man.”
“Not bad at all,” Alucard agreed, and pulled the coffin lid shut.
To be fair, it was never actually an equal relationship. At any point, Alucard could have crushed Cross. He could have subsumed his mind and eaten his personality, leaving behind only a handsome husk to be used and discarded; he could have broken and destroyed the man physically; he could have even kept him as a prisoner in his castle and never let him leave again.
But it was a glorious thing, to find a rival. The thought of crushing Cross before he had the chance to destroy Alucard hurt him, pierced him in the part of his heart still shattered and raw from Anderson’s death as a monster. He loved the handsome red of Cross’ hair, the manful, meticulous pride he had in his goatee. He savored the sight of Cross sleeping in the sun, all muscles and scar and bone. He worshipped the way Cross threw himself at Alucard, as if by sheer will alone he would rip this immortal monster down from his throne of bodies and make him bow to Cross alone.
In the end, it was never as if anything but this could happen:
Cross struggled, but even with his whole weight pressed up and back he couldn’t get the coffin lid opened again. Alucard ripped into his throat with all the blind ferocity that a foe noble and proud demanded. He drank deeply, watching Cross’ memories, dwelling on some and discarding others. He lay the thin husk of Cross’ body down against the bed of his coffin, slashed his own neck with his nails, pressed his throat to Cross’ desperate blue-tinted lips. He forced Cross to swallow once, twice. Thrice. He shuddered in relief as Cross’ teeth clamped down over the wound on his throat. He let Cross fall into the death sleep.
He felt the thinness of the world around them. He pushed the lid of the coffin up again, just in time to see the moon rise, red and resplendent. He looked back to Cross, sleeping, dreaming in the thinness of the world touched by death.
He knew in his bones:
This was enough.
“What the fuck did you do to me,” Cross groaned when he woke up finally, on All-Saint’s Day. Alucard, who had been reading on the purple velvet fainting couch, looked up from his book. The crackle of flames lit Cross up as if he were a beauty in a painting, highlighted the smears of blood and the mended wounds and bruises. He smiled at Cross, relieved. Not every dracula woke from their death sleep.
“I gave you something,” he explained. It was all Cross needed to hear.
He heard the rhythmic beat of Cross’ heart, the soft calls in his sleep the man made when he was lost to the world, lost in sleep. He turned on his side and Alucard heard that too, the soft rustle of sheets and the muted sound of slight discomfort as he moved. A curl of territoriality tickled Alucard then; he chuckled and kissed the back of Cross’ head.
The night was cold, but the warm, grim, grinning faces of jack o’ lanterns decorated the night outside. Day after tomorrow was the thinnest day, the day of Halloween or Samhain or whatever else people called it. According to the human calendar, it was actually three days to go, but Alucard could feel it. Any being beyond the pale could feel it. It was as physical a sensation as touch, the whisper of a fragmenting barrier. He longed for the day of that ultimate fraying as much as he regretted the inevitable fresh re-weaving that came after. It was a wild day, echoing with the howls of the faery hounds on their hellish hunt, rebounding with the calls of spirits visiting home, resounding with the screams of winds breaking their chains in preparation for their deep winter prowls.
He had used Cross gently tonight, knowing how much the man hated and loved when he was handled as something precious, something desired that needed wooing. He had taken his time scraping his fangs down Cross’ body, leaving raised red lines that never bled (but would still leave scabs the next morning), and he had taken time bringing Cross to his finish, never succumbing to the man’s pleas for mercy. It was important, he felt, to not always give Cross everything he asked for. (Or worse, to give him things he’d never asked for at all.)
Well. Not immediately, anyway.
Cross shifted again, this time flinging his nose into the nape of Alucard’s neck. Grunting in irritation at finding an obstruction in bed, the man turned again, heaving a happy sigh when he found a cool, empty space in the mattress.
Alucard turned a speculative eye to the priest sprawled next to him, raising a hand to pet down his bruised back. It made him burn with irritation, that the scabs and smears of black and green weren’t caused by his own blows. He wondered if Cross felt vexation at the fact that none of the injuries he inflicted to the vampire lasted. Knowing how often the man was the one to start a fight with him, the answer was: probably a lot. If he ever came across the Noahs Cross muttered about sometimes in his sleep, though... well, they would find an entirely new reason to doubt in God’s existence.
His hand slid down lower, to find Cross’ rear. He gave it a cursory squeeze, then, in a moment of impulsivity, rolled over to cover Cross’ prone form with his own. He smelled dusty, in the way of men (ashes to ashes, dust to dust), and also terribly vital. He was half-tempted to bite the man and let him wake to that- but a better idea occurred to him.
The shadows shifted, wriggled, and suddenly they were a thousand tendrils and five, fetching what he’d demanded from them. It wasn’t a noble use of dark, inscrutable powers borne from only the deepest wells of magic, but then again, some might argue that neither was killing people with them.
Alucard examined the little metal tin fetched for him with relish. He peeled Cross’ legs apart with persuasive, sweet hands, pinning the man below under his chest in a careful balancing act. The man stirred, brow furrowed, but Alucard whispered in his ear (“hush, hush, it’s only me, love,” and he told himself that Cross would only hate it if he called him that and so it was fine, fine) and he calmed. (What man would calm to a vampire cooing in his ear! Alucard asked himself, and imagined Walter before trying not to.)
He slicked his fingers, then reached down, at first to simply massage Cross’ entrance. The priest wet his lips, shifted. Rolled his shoulders a bit. Alucard rubbed a bit more, lowered his mouth to the shoulder under him, and bit down softly, merely a scrape of teeth. Cross sighed and relaxed. (God but what was wrong with either of them!) Alucard waited a bit more, counting Cross’ breaths, heavier now with Alucard resting on him. He massaged again, adding to the slickness of Cross’ entrance, and then, in a slow, almost tentative movement, breached him with one finger. He waited, spine tense, for anything from a grumble to a punch to the face. Nothing came. Instead, Cross simply tensed a bit, then went limp with a faint mumble.
He became bolder. He worked at the man’s entrance with one finger, then two, and then three. Each time, he held his breath, waited, but Cross didn’t wake. He stretched him as well as he could, his own cock growing harder and harder until it was difficult to focus on anything but the demanding tension between his own legs. Finally, he gave an eager shudder and pulled his fingers, one by one, slow, from the other man. He waited, listening to Cross’ breathing, and when he didn’t so much as flutter his lashes, he gave an arrogant, pleasure-heavy purr and leaned down to rest one of his own broad hands over Cross’ calloused, handsome ones.
The other hand he used to position himself, and he pressed in with his hips, a quiet flex restrained by tremulous excitement at what Cross’ reaction would be. Would it startle him, to wake and find himself spread open on Alucard’s prick? Would he fight Alucard, try to elbow him off? Would he shake and moan and come undone like a whore? Only one way to find out, he decided, and slid himself into Cross in one hard thrust. His other hand flew to restrain Cross’ yet-free one.
The effect was instantaneous; Alucard would have expected no less. Cross’ eyes flew open, his back arched, heart racing. In that moment between sleep and wake, confused but wild with ferocity, eyes fever- or madness-bright, every muscle in his body straining, he looked so beautiful that Alucard’s heart did something terrible and dire-feeling- if he had still been a living man, he would have said it stopped. (But he wasn’t, and so it couldn’t have.)
Cross pulled against Alucard’s hands holding him down, making an animal, angry noise, hips shaking and bucking. Alucard held on with a wild laugh, taking the chance to further secure his hold, to use Cross’ own movements to drive his cock deeper into the man’s wildly-fighting body. He mouthed at the back of Cross’ neck, and then, allowing a fit of instinct, bit him soundly there.
Curiously, the bite made Cross shiver and shudder, mouth falling open in a wanton oval as his eyes fluttered shut.
“You fuck,” Cross grated out, hands clawing at the sheets, fighting his own body as it eagerly began to work with Alucard’s to wring pleasure from them both. “You fucking- augh, oh fuck, jesus,” Alucard shuddered, excitement racing through them both, “jesus, god, fuck, yes, harder, harder, beast!”
Alucard reared and braced himself against the headboard, releasing Cross’ hands to do it. He wondered curiously, in the part of himself not currently preparing to nail the man into the mattress, if he’d take the chance to run.
He didn’t.
He began to fuck Cross as hard as he could, having long since learned what kind of force the man wanted when he asked for more. The glorious heat of him, the slide of flesh on flesh, the tight way he screamed as Alucard slammed home again and again, the jerking twitches in his thighs as he got closer and closer to orgasm and the thick smell of his arousal and the musk of his sweat and the way he writhed and clenched hard around his cock--
it ruined Alucard. He growled, groaned, shook like a wolf in the rain and released the headboard to rut into Cross quick and close. He clawed at the priests’ sides, bit his neck mercilessly, thrust into him so hard he hoped the man would walk funny for a week- and none of it was enough.
Even as he came inside Cross, even as his breathing slowed and stopped again, even as Cross smacked him, punched him, threatened to shoot him and then pulled himself off Alucard’s softened cock, even as they settled to sleep again...
It wasn’t enough.
Later that night- almost morning, really- Alucard woke again. The sun was creeping over the room delicately, like a shy virgin entering her bedroom on her honeymoon night. He eyed the bright burn of Cross’ hair as the sun lit it up, savoring the color as if it were blood itself. Looking carefully at the way the priest had turned to curl against Alucard’s body, he could see the broken skin inflicted by his teeth. It soothed the disquiet in him, and that startled him. (Though he looked back and wondered why that should have been anything but common sense.)
He made up his mind that night, feeling the thinness of the world whip around him. It was one day to the time of spirits and wild hunts and death. It was one day to.
On the day (and this wasn’t his planning, but it was Cross’ unwitting interference), he slept particularly deeply. It was a good day to be close to the world of the dead, and that extended to all things. The time when the barrier was broken was refreshing and wearying both. Alucard could remember grand court parties, when vampires were populous and noble and proud. Rich costumes and fabulous decorations, sumptuous feasts and beautiful servants: all of that and more for the princes and queens of vampires!
On the day, he didn’t wake quickly. There was a strange sensation in him, something that sparked brilliant shudders down his spine. He wet his lips and then, brow sleepily furrowed, wet them again. It didn’t hurt, but it was... It was... he knew this feeling. His hips rocked up, legs spreading wider, and his head turned up to bare his throat automatically. Alucard hazily cracked an eye, then another. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised, so he wasn’t. Instead, he studied Cross, naked and fucking him awake in mild little hitches of his handsome hips, with a degree of puzzlement.
“I thought I’d better show you how to do it right, you old bastard,” Cross explained, brow furrowed in concentration. “Figures that you’d even suck at fucking a sleeping person.”
Alucard was too sleepy yet to respond, though he felt it prudent to mention that Cross certainly hadn’t thought he’d sucked at it the other night. He pressed the thought into Cross’ mind vaguely, eyes shutting again, head dropping to the wood of his coffin, as he surrendered to the delicious feeling. It wasn’t like Cross to take him like this; hell, it wasn’t like Cross to take him in the first place. He, like Cross, enjoyed pain and pleasure in equal mete.
“Yeah, yeah, shut up,” he heard Cross mutter, not unaffectionately, before lengthening the depth of his thrusts. Alucard keened softly, raising a shaking hand to Cross’ head, smoothing his hair before dropping to his neck, then his shoulder to finger at the still-bloody bites he’d left the other night. He swallowed, gasped, twisted his hips and tensed his body around Cross on each pull back. The priest muttered something affectionately furious, dragging himself out of Alucard only to thrust in again yet more slowly. It was like drowning in heaven, bedding with Cross.
Alucard could see a jack o’ lantern behind Cross’ head, which was the only light source for the room. They fucked quietly in the warm glow of the candle inside, Cross eventually dropping down to loop his arms around Alucard’s and screw him that way, putting his entire weight behind each motion. (And Cross had asked him once why he had such a large coffin. Foolish man.)
It was dangerously close to making love- in fact, it was making love, but Alucard wasn’t going to point that out to Cross. It was the day of, and he had made up his mind.
When Cross finally spasmed and shuddered inside Alucard, the vampire sighed a single noise of pleasure and relaxation. His hand crept up from Cross’ bites to the lid of his coffin, impossibly heavy for a human to lift. It was a courtesy to Cross, that he left it open.
“Not bad,” Cross said, face muffled against Alucard’s neck, “for a dead man.”
“Not bad at all,” Alucard agreed, and pulled the coffin lid shut.
To be fair, it was never actually an equal relationship. At any point, Alucard could have crushed Cross. He could have subsumed his mind and eaten his personality, leaving behind only a handsome husk to be used and discarded; he could have broken and destroyed the man physically; he could have even kept him as a prisoner in his castle and never let him leave again.
But it was a glorious thing, to find a rival. The thought of crushing Cross before he had the chance to destroy Alucard hurt him, pierced him in the part of his heart still shattered and raw from Anderson’s death as a monster. He loved the handsome red of Cross’ hair, the manful, meticulous pride he had in his goatee. He savored the sight of Cross sleeping in the sun, all muscles and scar and bone. He worshipped the way Cross threw himself at Alucard, as if by sheer will alone he would rip this immortal monster down from his throne of bodies and make him bow to Cross alone.
In the end, it was never as if anything but this could happen:
Cross struggled, but even with his whole weight pressed up and back he couldn’t get the coffin lid opened again. Alucard ripped into his throat with all the blind ferocity that a foe noble and proud demanded. He drank deeply, watching Cross’ memories, dwelling on some and discarding others. He lay the thin husk of Cross’ body down against the bed of his coffin, slashed his own neck with his nails, pressed his throat to Cross’ desperate blue-tinted lips. He forced Cross to swallow once, twice. Thrice. He shuddered in relief as Cross’ teeth clamped down over the wound on his throat. He let Cross fall into the death sleep.
He felt the thinness of the world around them. He pushed the lid of the coffin up again, just in time to see the moon rise, red and resplendent. He looked back to Cross, sleeping, dreaming in the thinness of the world touched by death.
He knew in his bones:
This was enough.
“What the fuck did you do to me,” Cross groaned when he woke up finally, on All-Saint’s Day. Alucard, who had been reading on the purple velvet fainting couch, looked up from his book. The crackle of flames lit Cross up as if he were a beauty in a painting, highlighted the smears of blood and the mended wounds and bruises. He smiled at Cross, relieved. Not every dracula woke from their death sleep.
“I gave you something,” he explained. It was all Cross needed to hear.
