[fic] Blood for Pleasure part two [France, Hungary, eventual England, Germany]
Title: Blood for Pleasure part two
Author: le_ouiaboo
Character(s) or Pairing(s): France/Hungary, eventual England, Germany
Rating: R, eventual NC-17
Warnings: France being France, Hungary being Hungary, a plethora of dub-con events and orgies of a bloody nature
Summary: For my own prompt: France as a werewolf and Hungary as a vampire, ravishing the countryside of virgins, in as over-the-top, cheesy B-movie style as possible. England and Germany hunting them down much appreciated.
This is the last part I wrote before abandoning it.
[ part one]
He refused to thank her for saving his life. He had not asked to be saved and was resolved to die that night, having achieved his revenge and ending the curse of his family, before she found him and decided to turn him into one of her own kind. Immortal but not alive, a slave to unholy desires, with no hope for salvation for their soul. At least the brotherhood could claim that they truly lived most days of the month.
Yet for some reason he could not explain, Francis remained more lycanthrope than vampire, and the only changes he noticed was a new tendency to sleep through most of the daylight hours and a sudden dislike for certain herbs he once was fond of including in his cooking. Actually, it amused him that he still had to cook. After discovering he could not leave the confines of the castle to hunt as a wolf, he ended up subsisting on roasting the flesh of the nearly wild chickens and doves that still inhabited the fortress. Elizaveta was invited to his meals, and though she did not eat, she sat with him in the empty banquet hall, sipping from a glass of wine-red blood of unknown origins and trying to not look too disgusted as he devoured enough meat to feed three men. Always afterwards she would remind him to clean up after himself, since no human servant seemed to stay long enough to be of any use. And of course, this did not go over well with Francis, him being of the opinion that while cooking for survival was fine, washing the dishes was very much beneath his status. But Elizaveta enforced her wishes effectively through liberal use of a frying pan to his head.
Once each night’s meal had concluded, she would take him on the rounds of the castle, and they marched the entire length of the battlements, where she would occasionally use a looking glass to inspect the horizons. There was no possibility of a Turkish invasion in the middle of the night these days, but she performed this ritual every evening, as if out of habit. He did not question it, and kept his thoughts to himself.
Then she would take him to the library, and for an hour or two or until they got bored, attempted to teach him Hungarian so that they would not have to resort to speaking somewhat stilted German forever. Francis indulged her in this because he did not like being ignorant, and not because he liked it when she patted him on the head after he mastered a particularly difficult set of grammar rules. In his defense, they were exceedingly difficult, he had reason to be proud.
Sometimes in her dark moods, Elizaveta would mope in the master bedroom, using his wolf form as a sort of pillow as she lost herself in memories of her human life. In her lighter moods, she would play fetch with him, throwing sticks as far as she could and him racing to catch them before they fell on the ground, which provided hours of fun when he was a wolf, although he would never admit to that. If he stayed human, they would sometimes practice with the longbows and crossbows in the grand hall, and that was also fun, except for the times she shot at him while he was still pulling arrows out from the straw targets.
Their relationship was strange. They were not related, and yet she was his mother by blood. They had not slept together, and yet she was unquestionably his mistress, his mate. They did not get along more often than not, and yet she had become his only friend. Francis often wondered what she thought of him, if he was more than a pet and source of entertainment or frustration to her. He thought perhaps she did not know herself.
Perhaps two weeks into their odd cohabitation, she discovered him waiting for her at the entrance to the lower levels, pacing restlessly.
“I must leave this place, my lady,” he began before she could say anything. “Please, grant me a few hours outside of the keep.” He caught her frown and pleaded, “I will not leave you, Elizaveta, never, you know that. But I cannot live inside these walls forever. I am still a wolf, I must run, I must hunt…”
“Or what? You will die?” she interrupted, green eyes narrowing angrily. “You have already died, Francis, remember? You breathe and walk only by my grace. You have everything you could ever want right here, with me. You need nothing else.”
He stared back at her stubbornly, and she raised a hand to her breast, clutching at the front of her dress as if she were in pain.
“Go then,” she said, relenting. “Hunt in these woods, from the shadow of the three peaks down to the plains. You will sense when you have strayed too far. Then come back to me as soon as you have finished.”
“I will.”
“Do not let anyone else see you, Francis.”
But he had already transformed and vanished from her sight.
Tonight the barrier of the main gate did not hinder him, and the drawbridge crashed down across the moat with a thunderous noise. Joyously, Francis dashed into the woods, leaping and bounding in the sparse grass, weaving through the tree trunks and snapping at the little creatures that fled from his approach. Behind him the ancient mountain fortress rose majestically through the treetops, built alongside a sheer cliff face to ward off attacking armies. For one brief moment, he felt sorry for Elizaveta, unable to travel too far from this gloomy castle, but then a rabbit distracted him, and he trotted away without a second glance.
The crows and worms had taken care of the hunter’s corpse, and already grass and leaf mould threatened to bury the bones naturally. The werewolf sniffed at the skeleton, sneezing when it caught a whiff of silver. Quickly, it kicked dirt over the rest of the bones, and after the corpse had been sufficiently buried, it left the little clearing.
Although the forest was mostly abandoned, the road continued for some distance down the mountain, sometimes fading into a faint trail, but always present. Avoiding the road, the werewolf stopped to drink from a creek, noting the scent of the wolf pack that made this territory its home. It followed the scent for some distance, disappointed to find that the wolves had relocated to the other side of the mountains where it was not allowed to go.
Another scent gradually emerged, this time that of a human, and so the werewolf crouched in the shadows until the human made itself visible. But it was no man, no hunter, only a harmless peasant girl holding a basket of herbs, not worth the thrill of the chase and kill. The werewolf watched her kneel and pluck a few purple flowers, transfixed by her large doe eyes, soft pale skin, the succulent curve of her breasts showing through her blouse, listening intently to the rapid pulse of her fragile heart.
“Gyuri?” the girl called out hesitantly, hearing the sound of footsteps nearby. She felt suddenly foolish for wandering away from her brother in order to gather rare plants, but before she could retrace her steps, someone stood in her path, blocking her way. The girl gasped and made the mistake of looking into the man’s blue-gold eyes. The basket of herbs dropped from her limp fingers and rolled onto the grass, the wolfsbane spilling out as she slowly stepped forward into the waiting arms of the handsome stranger.
The last thing she remembered was his voice, honey sweet, telling her how beautiful she was, and the pleasant pinprick of his kiss along the skin of her throat.
It was an hour til dawn by the time Francis returned, he was late. His attempt to sneak back into the castle did not go unnoticed, and he soon felt her ominous presence forcing him to seek her out. With reluctant steps, Francis made his way to the grand hall, finding Elizaveta seated on the throne.
As he feared, she was absolutely furious and managed to throw the frying pan directly at his head even though he ducked in time.
“Where have you been?” she demanded. Not waiting for an answer, she stood up and marched to him, pinching his ear firmly. “Why do you smell like a human? You were to return as soon as you have hunted, and to not let anyone see you!”
“It took that long to hunt,” he muttered, wincing.
“But you let a human see you. What if they decide that you posed a danger to their animals? They would not hesitate to kill you on sight, and I would not be able to protect you.” She paused and then asked warningly, “You didn’t eat the human, did you? Because that would be even worse.”
“Do not worry, Elizaveta,” he assured her. “The girl is alive and unharmed, but she will not remember ever seeing me.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Chuckling, Francis brought her hand to his lips, kissing it. “I have my ways. Trust me.”
“I am not that much of a fool to trust a wolf,” Elizaveta retorted, but she did not seem as angry as before.
“My apologies, mistress. I did not mean to make you worry.”
“I just want you to be safe, Francis, that is all. I had to admit it, but you are all I have now,” she said, sighing in fond exasperation. “You still smell, and you know what that means. A bath.”
He rolled his eyes. “Oh… fun.”
Author: le_ouiaboo
Character(s) or Pairing(s): France/Hungary, eventual England, Germany
Rating: R, eventual NC-17
Warnings: France being France, Hungary being Hungary, a plethora of dub-con events and orgies of a bloody nature
Summary: For my own prompt: France as a werewolf and Hungary as a vampire, ravishing the countryside of virgins, in as over-the-top, cheesy B-movie style as possible. England and Germany hunting them down much appreciated.
This is the last part I wrote before abandoning it.
[ part one]
He refused to thank her for saving his life. He had not asked to be saved and was resolved to die that night, having achieved his revenge and ending the curse of his family, before she found him and decided to turn him into one of her own kind. Immortal but not alive, a slave to unholy desires, with no hope for salvation for their soul. At least the brotherhood could claim that they truly lived most days of the month.
Yet for some reason he could not explain, Francis remained more lycanthrope than vampire, and the only changes he noticed was a new tendency to sleep through most of the daylight hours and a sudden dislike for certain herbs he once was fond of including in his cooking. Actually, it amused him that he still had to cook. After discovering he could not leave the confines of the castle to hunt as a wolf, he ended up subsisting on roasting the flesh of the nearly wild chickens and doves that still inhabited the fortress. Elizaveta was invited to his meals, and though she did not eat, she sat with him in the empty banquet hall, sipping from a glass of wine-red blood of unknown origins and trying to not look too disgusted as he devoured enough meat to feed three men. Always afterwards she would remind him to clean up after himself, since no human servant seemed to stay long enough to be of any use. And of course, this did not go over well with Francis, him being of the opinion that while cooking for survival was fine, washing the dishes was very much beneath his status. But Elizaveta enforced her wishes effectively through liberal use of a frying pan to his head.
Once each night’s meal had concluded, she would take him on the rounds of the castle, and they marched the entire length of the battlements, where she would occasionally use a looking glass to inspect the horizons. There was no possibility of a Turkish invasion in the middle of the night these days, but she performed this ritual every evening, as if out of habit. He did not question it, and kept his thoughts to himself.
Then she would take him to the library, and for an hour or two or until they got bored, attempted to teach him Hungarian so that they would not have to resort to speaking somewhat stilted German forever. Francis indulged her in this because he did not like being ignorant, and not because he liked it when she patted him on the head after he mastered a particularly difficult set of grammar rules. In his defense, they were exceedingly difficult, he had reason to be proud.
Sometimes in her dark moods, Elizaveta would mope in the master bedroom, using his wolf form as a sort of pillow as she lost herself in memories of her human life. In her lighter moods, she would play fetch with him, throwing sticks as far as she could and him racing to catch them before they fell on the ground, which provided hours of fun when he was a wolf, although he would never admit to that. If he stayed human, they would sometimes practice with the longbows and crossbows in the grand hall, and that was also fun, except for the times she shot at him while he was still pulling arrows out from the straw targets.
Their relationship was strange. They were not related, and yet she was his mother by blood. They had not slept together, and yet she was unquestionably his mistress, his mate. They did not get along more often than not, and yet she had become his only friend. Francis often wondered what she thought of him, if he was more than a pet and source of entertainment or frustration to her. He thought perhaps she did not know herself.
Perhaps two weeks into their odd cohabitation, she discovered him waiting for her at the entrance to the lower levels, pacing restlessly.
“I must leave this place, my lady,” he began before she could say anything. “Please, grant me a few hours outside of the keep.” He caught her frown and pleaded, “I will not leave you, Elizaveta, never, you know that. But I cannot live inside these walls forever. I am still a wolf, I must run, I must hunt…”
“Or what? You will die?” she interrupted, green eyes narrowing angrily. “You have already died, Francis, remember? You breathe and walk only by my grace. You have everything you could ever want right here, with me. You need nothing else.”
He stared back at her stubbornly, and she raised a hand to her breast, clutching at the front of her dress as if she were in pain.
“Go then,” she said, relenting. “Hunt in these woods, from the shadow of the three peaks down to the plains. You will sense when you have strayed too far. Then come back to me as soon as you have finished.”
“I will.”
“Do not let anyone else see you, Francis.”
But he had already transformed and vanished from her sight.
Tonight the barrier of the main gate did not hinder him, and the drawbridge crashed down across the moat with a thunderous noise. Joyously, Francis dashed into the woods, leaping and bounding in the sparse grass, weaving through the tree trunks and snapping at the little creatures that fled from his approach. Behind him the ancient mountain fortress rose majestically through the treetops, built alongside a sheer cliff face to ward off attacking armies. For one brief moment, he felt sorry for Elizaveta, unable to travel too far from this gloomy castle, but then a rabbit distracted him, and he trotted away without a second glance.
The crows and worms had taken care of the hunter’s corpse, and already grass and leaf mould threatened to bury the bones naturally. The werewolf sniffed at the skeleton, sneezing when it caught a whiff of silver. Quickly, it kicked dirt over the rest of the bones, and after the corpse had been sufficiently buried, it left the little clearing.
Although the forest was mostly abandoned, the road continued for some distance down the mountain, sometimes fading into a faint trail, but always present. Avoiding the road, the werewolf stopped to drink from a creek, noting the scent of the wolf pack that made this territory its home. It followed the scent for some distance, disappointed to find that the wolves had relocated to the other side of the mountains where it was not allowed to go.
Another scent gradually emerged, this time that of a human, and so the werewolf crouched in the shadows until the human made itself visible. But it was no man, no hunter, only a harmless peasant girl holding a basket of herbs, not worth the thrill of the chase and kill. The werewolf watched her kneel and pluck a few purple flowers, transfixed by her large doe eyes, soft pale skin, the succulent curve of her breasts showing through her blouse, listening intently to the rapid pulse of her fragile heart.
“Gyuri?” the girl called out hesitantly, hearing the sound of footsteps nearby. She felt suddenly foolish for wandering away from her brother in order to gather rare plants, but before she could retrace her steps, someone stood in her path, blocking her way. The girl gasped and made the mistake of looking into the man’s blue-gold eyes. The basket of herbs dropped from her limp fingers and rolled onto the grass, the wolfsbane spilling out as she slowly stepped forward into the waiting arms of the handsome stranger.
The last thing she remembered was his voice, honey sweet, telling her how beautiful she was, and the pleasant pinprick of his kiss along the skin of her throat.
It was an hour til dawn by the time Francis returned, he was late. His attempt to sneak back into the castle did not go unnoticed, and he soon felt her ominous presence forcing him to seek her out. With reluctant steps, Francis made his way to the grand hall, finding Elizaveta seated on the throne.
As he feared, she was absolutely furious and managed to throw the frying pan directly at his head even though he ducked in time.
“Where have you been?” she demanded. Not waiting for an answer, she stood up and marched to him, pinching his ear firmly. “Why do you smell like a human? You were to return as soon as you have hunted, and to not let anyone see you!”
“It took that long to hunt,” he muttered, wincing.
“But you let a human see you. What if they decide that you posed a danger to their animals? They would not hesitate to kill you on sight, and I would not be able to protect you.” She paused and then asked warningly, “You didn’t eat the human, did you? Because that would be even worse.”
“Do not worry, Elizaveta,” he assured her. “The girl is alive and unharmed, but she will not remember ever seeing me.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Chuckling, Francis brought her hand to his lips, kissing it. “I have my ways. Trust me.”
“I am not that much of a fool to trust a wolf,” Elizaveta retorted, but she did not seem as angry as before.
“My apologies, mistress. I did not mean to make you worry.”
“I just want you to be safe, Francis, that is all. I had to admit it, but you are all I have now,” she said, sighing in fond exasperation. “You still smell, and you know what that means. A bath.”
He rolled his eyes. “Oh… fun.”