(no subject)
TITLE: Begun By Blood
RATING: R for vampirey stuff
FANDOMS: Taniec Vampirow
SUMMARY: What Herbert von Krolock wants, Herbert von Krolock will ensure that he gets.
PAIRINGS: Non-specific
WORDS: 2224
NOTES: This is completely detached from Carpe Noctem. This story features Warsaw!Herbert, who also appeared in When Love Is Inside You and his father is most adamantly Warsaw!von Krolock. *twitches* I have 3 Herberts and at least 2 von Krolocks now. My head... it will essplode.
______________________
For reference, this is what the vampires look like in this fic:
ie. not my usual vampires.
Kneeling in the ruins of the desecrated chapel, the golden-haired youth looked like a fallen angel himself. Clad in a crimson silk shirt and black breeches, gleaming black boots covering his calves to his knees, his hands were pressed together before his chest, his head bowed.
Beyond the stained glass of the tall window above the altar, the moon was rising in a clear sky, shards of bright, cold light casting weak hues through the coloured panels of the window.
Among the broken pews and upturned candles, a second figure stood, his dark cloak pooling about his feet and merging into the shadows that stretched from the pillared walls. Long, elegant hands unfurled and trembled by his sides in this chamber that had once been the holiest of sanctuaries.
It had been barred to him from the moment the Graf had accepted the saving grace of Draculea’s bite, but now he stood amid the ruin, wonder and grief on his face as he gazed with new eyes at walls that had scorched him for so many years.
Drifting towards one of the walls, his pale fingers trembled in the moonlight close to a half-burned image of the Holy Mother and Child, his lips parting in a silent whisper that never took shape. He seemed to be seeking anything that might allow him to look away from the scene at the front of the chapel.
From the doorway, Draculea watched impassively.
There was but one reason that his Excellency had come to this place on his son’s request and all three of them knew it, yet not one of them would speak as the Graf revelled in the destruction of the last thing that had held his son’s mortal salvation.
Herbert’s delicate, slim hands had taken this once-sacred place apart, every piece of it, so that not an ounce of holiness remained, rendering it as damned as his father and the rest of the mausoleum they called home.
The final and greatest transgression of the Graf’s son lay on the defiled and bloodied altar; a young man, dark-haired and strikingly handsome. Bathed in tinted moonlight, his hand was still wrapped around the dagger that he had thrust into his own breast, the other hanging limply over the edge of the altar.
In the silence, blood dripped softly from death-stiffened fingers, the unfortunate boy’s brown eyes glazed and empty. His expression was eternally frozen in a look of pleading devotion, his lips parted as if awaiting a final kiss.
It seemed that Herbert’s gift of persuasion was quite remarkable. Or perhaps, his gift for brutal manipulation combined with his adamant desire to have precisely what he wished.
For his part, Draculea was willing his stubborn Excellency to depart and leave the boy to him. It would be a fool that would turn down such a willing and ruthless creature, yet he knew his Sorcerer was a sentimental idiot, clinging to the last vestiges of his mortality that were harboured in the boy.
A sigh from the front of the chapel drew his eyes and he knew that the Graf had stiffened by the small shrine. Herbert had unfolded his hands, lowering them to his lap and shook his head slowly. His golden hair slipped loosely against his shoulders and fanned against the blood-red silk of his shirt.
Rising on his knees, the boy leaned close to the still corpse on the altar, touching a soft kiss to the parted lips, his fingers smoothing the dark curls. Even from a distance, Draculea could feel the boy’s satisfaction that went far beyond physical.
He sank back on his heels, lifting the trailing hand to his lips and kissed the bloody fingertips reverently, then pressed the back of the hand to his cheek. Draculea’s tongue slipped along his lower lip, but he could see the Graf’s shoulders tensing and could feel the anguished guilt radiating off him like a wave of heat.
With a tenderness that belied the ruin around him, Herbert folded the boy’s hands over the dagger sheathed in his heart, then tilted his head slightly, a gleam of a grey eyes looking towards his father. His voice was a breath in the stillness; “Forgive me, father.”
Von Krolock turned slowly towards his child, one hand drawing his cloak aside, his footfalls silent as he moved around a broken candelabra. The boy bowed his head, watching his father through the pale shield of his hair.
The boy’s hands moved before his chest as if nervous, but there was no fear in his mind nor even a moment of hesitation or doubt as his father moved closer, the silken slither of his cloak the only sound.
“Herbert...” Over his son’s shoulders, the Graf’s hands hovered, trembling. The fear and grief in his voice was poignant, but his son’s strength seemed to feed his and he straightened, hands clasping the edges of his cloak. Draculea could hear the slowly indrawn breath and could see the pale tension in his Sorcerer’s stance.
Slipping within the shadowy alcoves close to the door, Draculea leaned against a sculpted column, his fingers pressing against the stone, admiring the battle of wills that was ongoing; the boy had one desire and von Krolock wanted nothing more than to deny it.
Herbert, however, seemed thoroughly at ease. He drew a long, satisfied breath, then shrugged one shoulder. His dark shirt slipped, the fabric caressing the curve of his shoulder and upper arm. A roll of the other shoulder dismissed the shirt almost entirely, leaving it tangled about his elbows, trailing over his heels.
Draculea’s nails raked against the stone as the boy’s hair caressed that bare, lean back, every light incline of his head letting the golden strands tease across his skin, a silent sensual taunt to one who was held at a distance by the Graf’s presence and ever increasing power.
“Herbert...” his father whispered again, one hand reaching out and hesitating less than a finger’s breadth from his son’s hair. Tracing the air, he averted his face and his agonised profile was cast in sharp relief. “Anything... anything but this...”
For a moment, Herbert was still, then his right hand rose. Tracing his index fingertip from his left temple and down, he tilted his head, dragging his hair in a golden spill over his right shoulder, baring his throat to his father and his father’s Sire, who was unable to quash a low groan. Against the column, Draculea’s fingers clawed away fragments of fragile stone.
That alone seemed to strike the Graf’s self-loathing and lamenting from him. In a flare of black, he whirled to throw a look of deepest loathing towards Draculea, who could not restrain his lips from drawing back from his fangs in a hungry smile. He had no doubt his every thought was etched on his face, and clearly, Johannes could see that too.
Bleak, blazing eyes stared at him and his hand reached out blindly, his fingers curling against his son’s bared shoulder. His cloak flared about him again as he swept to his knees behind his child, his every gesture rife with grief.
Swaying back into his father’s touch, Herbert’s face was raised towards the window, a blissful smile upon his lips, as if he were oblivious to the despair he was causing his own father. His fingers rose to clasp his father’s and Johannes bowed his head, his noble brow resting against his son’s fair crown.
“Herbert...” he whispered, his dark hair slipping forward to mingle with his son’s golden tresses.
Turning his head enough that his father’s brow slipped to touch his temple, the boy drew his father’s arms around him, the dark clothing so stark against the boy’s tanned skin. “Forever, father,” he whispered, his eyes closed. “Please.”
A low, guttural sound that was part groan, part growl escaped Draculea and he pressed to the pillar, his fingers kneading against the stone. Breath was rasping in his nostrils, and his lips were parted, and he knew if the damned Graf did nothing now, he would take the boy and make him anew.
Von Krolock’s head whipped around, as if he had heard Draculea’s every thought, his dark hair flying in his rage, and his growl echoed around the still building. About his son, his arms tightened possessively, and Herbert uttered a faint gasp, tilting his head, trusting, willing, wanting.
Draculea could only watch as von Krolock slid forward, his legs framing his son’s, until their bodies were pressed to one another. The Graf’s right arm crossed his son’s chest and gripped Herbert’s left shoulder, while his left arm crossed the boy’s waist to press to Herbert’s right hip.
Unheard words spilled from the Graf’s lips to his son’s ear and Herbert arched his graceful neck, his hands splayed on his tensed thighs, his features rife with anticipation.
When the Graf’s fangs broke through his own son and blood’s throat, Draculea could not be sure who moaned the louder; himself or the boy.
Before his father, Herbert arched and Draculea watched the boy’s fingers spasm and knead at his own thighs, his mortal moan giving way to shallow, panted breaths. His fingers started to move, roaming, caressing, his soft, wanting whimpers growing more rapid, his head falling back against his father’s shoulder.
Draculea’s tongue pressed to the back of his clenched teeth, every breath a rasping hiss, one of his own hands wrenching from the stone to slide down his own body, his hips shifting hungrily.
Catching one of his father’s wrists, Herbert’s fingers tensed against his father’s sleeve and he uttered a sobbing cry. The Graf wrenched his mouth free, tossing his head, blood streaking his chin and his son’s hair, then pressed his cheek to Herbert’s, his hold on the boy never faltering.
In his father’s embrace, the youth now on the very brink of damnation tilted his head against his father’s and von Krolock tenderly nuzzled his son’s cheek, his left hand rising to softly touch his son’s right cheek.
“Always, Vati,” Herbert whispered, clutching his father’s arm, seeking that final assurance that his plot had not been in vain.
Von Krolock traced his son’s jawline tenderly and smoothed his hair with bloody fingertips. “Forever, Kleines,” he whispered as Herbert’s eyes sank closed and he drew his final breath of mortality.
Holding his son close, the Graf bowed his head and tenderly licked escaping trails of scarlet from his son’s pale skin, doubtless soothing the boy’s vanity for the moment when he awoke and slaking his lingering hunger, but Draculea could only notice the way the Graf’s tongue slid against his own son’s fair flesh.
No two creatures of one line should ever be so beautiful.
By the column, Draculea shuddered, exhaling a breath that was quivering almost as much as his limbs seemed to be. His arm slipped about the stone to support himself, his head bowed as he struggled to regain a little composure. Against the pillar, his brow pressed to rough stone and he closed his eyes, exhaling slowly.
How long he was leaning there, he did not know. It couldn’t have been long, but he became aware of eyes on him and slowly opened his eyes, looking up from beneath his brows to see grey eyes glinting and a fanged smile beaming down at him.
Draculea’s eyes went wide and he straightened up, his own lips drawing back from his fangs. The boy had risen remarkably fast. Perhaps, his own stubbornness and determination had allowed it.
He had moved quickly and silently, to approach Draculea without being noticed.
Pale fingers wiggled in a mischievous wave, then those grey eyes flicked downwards and back up, and Herbert bit his lip. He looked like he was struggling and completely failing to repress a smile.
Draculea’s lip curled and he straightened up, his eyes flashing, which only made the boy grin all the wider.
“Vati,” he asked innocently, his eyes remaining on Draculea’s as he idly adjusted his shirt back onto his shoulders, the bloody bite at his throat and the dark streaks in his hair only complimented by the dark fabric. “Is it meant to happen so quickly?”
Draculea’s growl emerged before he could stifle it.
Behind the boy, von Krolock was standing, his arms folded over his chest. There was no trace of blood on his lips, no sign of the damnation he had laid upon his own child, and his dark eyes were softly gleaming at his son.
“Sometimes, a moment is all it takes, Kleines,” he murmured and Draculea could swear he saw the idiot Sorcerer’s lips twitching.
Herbert tilted his head and sighed, splaying a hand on his bare chest, fingers lost in the ruffles of his shirt. He pouted. “Such a disappointment,” he sighed, then whirled away in a flare of oversized red silk shirt and bound back towards his father, latching onto von Krolock’s arm and tossing a roll of his eyes over his shoulder at Draculea, a sweep of golden hair whispering in the air. “Come, Vati! We have so much to do and a world to conquer!”
Without a second look, they both swept past Vlad, Herbert chattering eagerly about his plans and thoughts on what he wanted to do first, and Draculea swore, reaching down to fasten his trousers.
RATING: R for vampirey stuff
FANDOMS: Taniec Vampirow
SUMMARY: What Herbert von Krolock wants, Herbert von Krolock will ensure that he gets.
PAIRINGS: Non-specific
WORDS: 2224
NOTES: This is completely detached from Carpe Noctem. This story features Warsaw!Herbert, who also appeared in When Love Is Inside You and his father is most adamantly Warsaw!von Krolock. *twitches* I have 3 Herberts and at least 2 von Krolocks now. My head... it will essplode.
______________________
For reference, this is what the vampires look like in this fic:
ie. not my usual vampires.
Kneeling in the ruins of the desecrated chapel, the golden-haired youth looked like a fallen angel himself. Clad in a crimson silk shirt and black breeches, gleaming black boots covering his calves to his knees, his hands were pressed together before his chest, his head bowed.
Beyond the stained glass of the tall window above the altar, the moon was rising in a clear sky, shards of bright, cold light casting weak hues through the coloured panels of the window.
Among the broken pews and upturned candles, a second figure stood, his dark cloak pooling about his feet and merging into the shadows that stretched from the pillared walls. Long, elegant hands unfurled and trembled by his sides in this chamber that had once been the holiest of sanctuaries.
It had been barred to him from the moment the Graf had accepted the saving grace of Draculea’s bite, but now he stood amid the ruin, wonder and grief on his face as he gazed with new eyes at walls that had scorched him for so many years.
Drifting towards one of the walls, his pale fingers trembled in the moonlight close to a half-burned image of the Holy Mother and Child, his lips parting in a silent whisper that never took shape. He seemed to be seeking anything that might allow him to look away from the scene at the front of the chapel.
From the doorway, Draculea watched impassively.
There was but one reason that his Excellency had come to this place on his son’s request and all three of them knew it, yet not one of them would speak as the Graf revelled in the destruction of the last thing that had held his son’s mortal salvation.
Herbert’s delicate, slim hands had taken this once-sacred place apart, every piece of it, so that not an ounce of holiness remained, rendering it as damned as his father and the rest of the mausoleum they called home.
The final and greatest transgression of the Graf’s son lay on the defiled and bloodied altar; a young man, dark-haired and strikingly handsome. Bathed in tinted moonlight, his hand was still wrapped around the dagger that he had thrust into his own breast, the other hanging limply over the edge of the altar.
In the silence, blood dripped softly from death-stiffened fingers, the unfortunate boy’s brown eyes glazed and empty. His expression was eternally frozen in a look of pleading devotion, his lips parted as if awaiting a final kiss.
It seemed that Herbert’s gift of persuasion was quite remarkable. Or perhaps, his gift for brutal manipulation combined with his adamant desire to have precisely what he wished.
For his part, Draculea was willing his stubborn Excellency to depart and leave the boy to him. It would be a fool that would turn down such a willing and ruthless creature, yet he knew his Sorcerer was a sentimental idiot, clinging to the last vestiges of his mortality that were harboured in the boy.
A sigh from the front of the chapel drew his eyes and he knew that the Graf had stiffened by the small shrine. Herbert had unfolded his hands, lowering them to his lap and shook his head slowly. His golden hair slipped loosely against his shoulders and fanned against the blood-red silk of his shirt.
Rising on his knees, the boy leaned close to the still corpse on the altar, touching a soft kiss to the parted lips, his fingers smoothing the dark curls. Even from a distance, Draculea could feel the boy’s satisfaction that went far beyond physical.
He sank back on his heels, lifting the trailing hand to his lips and kissed the bloody fingertips reverently, then pressed the back of the hand to his cheek. Draculea’s tongue slipped along his lower lip, but he could see the Graf’s shoulders tensing and could feel the anguished guilt radiating off him like a wave of heat.
With a tenderness that belied the ruin around him, Herbert folded the boy’s hands over the dagger sheathed in his heart, then tilted his head slightly, a gleam of a grey eyes looking towards his father. His voice was a breath in the stillness; “Forgive me, father.”
Von Krolock turned slowly towards his child, one hand drawing his cloak aside, his footfalls silent as he moved around a broken candelabra. The boy bowed his head, watching his father through the pale shield of his hair.
The boy’s hands moved before his chest as if nervous, but there was no fear in his mind nor even a moment of hesitation or doubt as his father moved closer, the silken slither of his cloak the only sound.
“Herbert...” Over his son’s shoulders, the Graf’s hands hovered, trembling. The fear and grief in his voice was poignant, but his son’s strength seemed to feed his and he straightened, hands clasping the edges of his cloak. Draculea could hear the slowly indrawn breath and could see the pale tension in his Sorcerer’s stance.
Slipping within the shadowy alcoves close to the door, Draculea leaned against a sculpted column, his fingers pressing against the stone, admiring the battle of wills that was ongoing; the boy had one desire and von Krolock wanted nothing more than to deny it.
Herbert, however, seemed thoroughly at ease. He drew a long, satisfied breath, then shrugged one shoulder. His dark shirt slipped, the fabric caressing the curve of his shoulder and upper arm. A roll of the other shoulder dismissed the shirt almost entirely, leaving it tangled about his elbows, trailing over his heels.
Draculea’s nails raked against the stone as the boy’s hair caressed that bare, lean back, every light incline of his head letting the golden strands tease across his skin, a silent sensual taunt to one who was held at a distance by the Graf’s presence and ever increasing power.
“Herbert...” his father whispered again, one hand reaching out and hesitating less than a finger’s breadth from his son’s hair. Tracing the air, he averted his face and his agonised profile was cast in sharp relief. “Anything... anything but this...”
For a moment, Herbert was still, then his right hand rose. Tracing his index fingertip from his left temple and down, he tilted his head, dragging his hair in a golden spill over his right shoulder, baring his throat to his father and his father’s Sire, who was unable to quash a low groan. Against the column, Draculea’s fingers clawed away fragments of fragile stone.
That alone seemed to strike the Graf’s self-loathing and lamenting from him. In a flare of black, he whirled to throw a look of deepest loathing towards Draculea, who could not restrain his lips from drawing back from his fangs in a hungry smile. He had no doubt his every thought was etched on his face, and clearly, Johannes could see that too.
Bleak, blazing eyes stared at him and his hand reached out blindly, his fingers curling against his son’s bared shoulder. His cloak flared about him again as he swept to his knees behind his child, his every gesture rife with grief.
Swaying back into his father’s touch, Herbert’s face was raised towards the window, a blissful smile upon his lips, as if he were oblivious to the despair he was causing his own father. His fingers rose to clasp his father’s and Johannes bowed his head, his noble brow resting against his son’s fair crown.
“Herbert...” he whispered, his dark hair slipping forward to mingle with his son’s golden tresses.
Turning his head enough that his father’s brow slipped to touch his temple, the boy drew his father’s arms around him, the dark clothing so stark against the boy’s tanned skin. “Forever, father,” he whispered, his eyes closed. “Please.”
A low, guttural sound that was part groan, part growl escaped Draculea and he pressed to the pillar, his fingers kneading against the stone. Breath was rasping in his nostrils, and his lips were parted, and he knew if the damned Graf did nothing now, he would take the boy and make him anew.
Von Krolock’s head whipped around, as if he had heard Draculea’s every thought, his dark hair flying in his rage, and his growl echoed around the still building. About his son, his arms tightened possessively, and Herbert uttered a faint gasp, tilting his head, trusting, willing, wanting.
Draculea could only watch as von Krolock slid forward, his legs framing his son’s, until their bodies were pressed to one another. The Graf’s right arm crossed his son’s chest and gripped Herbert’s left shoulder, while his left arm crossed the boy’s waist to press to Herbert’s right hip.
Unheard words spilled from the Graf’s lips to his son’s ear and Herbert arched his graceful neck, his hands splayed on his tensed thighs, his features rife with anticipation.
When the Graf’s fangs broke through his own son and blood’s throat, Draculea could not be sure who moaned the louder; himself or the boy.
Before his father, Herbert arched and Draculea watched the boy’s fingers spasm and knead at his own thighs, his mortal moan giving way to shallow, panted breaths. His fingers started to move, roaming, caressing, his soft, wanting whimpers growing more rapid, his head falling back against his father’s shoulder.
Draculea’s tongue pressed to the back of his clenched teeth, every breath a rasping hiss, one of his own hands wrenching from the stone to slide down his own body, his hips shifting hungrily.
Catching one of his father’s wrists, Herbert’s fingers tensed against his father’s sleeve and he uttered a sobbing cry. The Graf wrenched his mouth free, tossing his head, blood streaking his chin and his son’s hair, then pressed his cheek to Herbert’s, his hold on the boy never faltering.
In his father’s embrace, the youth now on the very brink of damnation tilted his head against his father’s and von Krolock tenderly nuzzled his son’s cheek, his left hand rising to softly touch his son’s right cheek.
“Always, Vati,” Herbert whispered, clutching his father’s arm, seeking that final assurance that his plot had not been in vain.
Von Krolock traced his son’s jawline tenderly and smoothed his hair with bloody fingertips. “Forever, Kleines,” he whispered as Herbert’s eyes sank closed and he drew his final breath of mortality.
Holding his son close, the Graf bowed his head and tenderly licked escaping trails of scarlet from his son’s pale skin, doubtless soothing the boy’s vanity for the moment when he awoke and slaking his lingering hunger, but Draculea could only notice the way the Graf’s tongue slid against his own son’s fair flesh.
No two creatures of one line should ever be so beautiful.
By the column, Draculea shuddered, exhaling a breath that was quivering almost as much as his limbs seemed to be. His arm slipped about the stone to support himself, his head bowed as he struggled to regain a little composure. Against the pillar, his brow pressed to rough stone and he closed his eyes, exhaling slowly.
How long he was leaning there, he did not know. It couldn’t have been long, but he became aware of eyes on him and slowly opened his eyes, looking up from beneath his brows to see grey eyes glinting and a fanged smile beaming down at him.
Draculea’s eyes went wide and he straightened up, his own lips drawing back from his fangs. The boy had risen remarkably fast. Perhaps, his own stubbornness and determination had allowed it.
He had moved quickly and silently, to approach Draculea without being noticed.
Pale fingers wiggled in a mischievous wave, then those grey eyes flicked downwards and back up, and Herbert bit his lip. He looked like he was struggling and completely failing to repress a smile.
Draculea’s lip curled and he straightened up, his eyes flashing, which only made the boy grin all the wider.
“Vati,” he asked innocently, his eyes remaining on Draculea’s as he idly adjusted his shirt back onto his shoulders, the bloody bite at his throat and the dark streaks in his hair only complimented by the dark fabric. “Is it meant to happen so quickly?”
Draculea’s growl emerged before he could stifle it.
Behind the boy, von Krolock was standing, his arms folded over his chest. There was no trace of blood on his lips, no sign of the damnation he had laid upon his own child, and his dark eyes were softly gleaming at his son.
“Sometimes, a moment is all it takes, Kleines,” he murmured and Draculea could swear he saw the idiot Sorcerer’s lips twitching.
Herbert tilted his head and sighed, splaying a hand on his bare chest, fingers lost in the ruffles of his shirt. He pouted. “Such a disappointment,” he sighed, then whirled away in a flare of oversized red silk shirt and bound back towards his father, latching onto von Krolock’s arm and tossing a roll of his eyes over his shoulder at Draculea, a sweep of golden hair whispering in the air. “Come, Vati! We have so much to do and a world to conquer!”
Without a second look, they both swept past Vlad, Herbert chattering eagerly about his plans and thoughts on what he wanted to do first, and Draculea swore, reaching down to fasten his trousers.