#cursegiven

[devilsworn]

@cursegiven​ asked: ❛ I had rather hoped that you would come. ❜ || PHANTOM OF THE OPERA

“Didn’t keep you waitin’ around too long, did I, big guy?” Funny question to ask, knowing well and good by now that Simon would wait all the hours God sends, patient, generous man that he is--the thought tugs a smirk to the corners of Nero’s lips as he steps out of the storm and into the quiet dim of the bar, rain combed back out of the short of his hair under one gloved hand as the other claps the hunter between the shoulders. “Well, sorry, but you know how it is out there right now. Everyone’s looking for a piece of me these days--work’s booming off the charts after everything that went down in Redgrave.”

Laughter breeches his voice, roguish and bright as the door is kicked shut behind him with one booted foot. “But hey, here I am, huh? Finally.” That clapping hand reaches on high, arm following behind to catch the curve of Simon’s neck in the crook of Nero’s elbow to tug him deeper into that space between them. “Front and centre, at your service and all that. Sort of on time...”

A brow quirks, rain shining bright on his young face and the silver of his lashes alike when his voice turns teasing in his slim throat. “You miss me?”

[executare]

@cursegiven​

“The rain and cold is not even so little as a care to you?” It seems as much to Carvel, who draws the hood of his cloak that little bit tighter about his young, timeless face as the two of them shelter out of the storm in the cold, wind-battered hollow of a cave. Dry, at least, but that’s the least little comfort it has to give. A scoff teases through the vampire’s teeth, dark head bowed till the curls of his hair fall thick and dark across one shoulder from under the trim of his hood. “Pehaps I ask foolishly. You walk around in next to nothing be it rain or snow or shine...”

[cursefelled]

@cursegiven​ said: ❝   i’m thinking about coming home. ❞ ||  * 𝚅𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙴 𝙹𝙾𝚈

“What shall you do once there?” There is a strange, burning humour to the tune of the hunter’s voice contained in its ordinary dignity; at odds with the curiosity that is genuine in his words, perfectly at home with the broadening smile on Trevor’s lips. There is a blaze in this one; there has to be in every Belmont son. It prides him greatly to know it for himself. “It isn’t to a Belmont’s nature not to have an end in mind. As any son of mine, I’d say you must be after something a little more than merely the comfort of our ancestral grounds. You are one that doesn’t come easy to rest. Not so unlike me.”

[nightslain]

@cursegiven​ said: Simon helping Leon clean blood off of them. B’) || BLOOD   LUST

               A part of him that is fatherly beyond help feels that he should be shamed to have his son stoop to this--that Simon should have seen him mad with rage is one thing, that he should still be so tender as to dry the blood from Leon’s cheek is another. Leon kneels in the dust of his courtyard nearly numb with the noise of battle flowing out of him--perhaps too with blood from wounds slow to mend (very soon, he really, really must drink--)

               “I had thought my days at war were behind me.” He admits as the lad smears away the red sticking to Leon’s lashes or that runs from his nose. Not all of this mess his own, and Leon is not sure if he prefers it so. “I see I was foolish to think it...”

[mythsought]

@cursegiven​ asked: “ if someone makes you feel, let them. ” - For Ophir B)c || MISC QUOTES

 The concept is only startling in that it amuses him so deeply, the thought only tremendous in that its absurdity is almost as delicious as Simon’s piercing resolve. It is not the first time he has attended Ophir’s troublemaking, duty-bound to succumb to the Lord’s pettier hungers for sport and mirth--but it is the first time he has proposed something so bold. So interesting. So ridiculous.

The thought thrills him.

“That would be bold of you, to imply that you can make it so in the first place. And what am I to believe that I shall feel from you, Belmont? What great and tremendous feeling indeed should you like to believe you can make burn inside me?” His gait is purposefully loud over the stone of his temple floor (not his, stolen and usurped), heels ringing sharp with each purposeful stride as the midnight colour of his cloak surrendered from his delicate shape to the moonlight puddling the floor below. And vanished just as quickly, blown over stone and starlight by the heady summer breeze carrying away a swell of feathers where once there was silk. Ophir’s laughter is louder than the wind, sweeter, song-like and sure in the bright, silver night. His breath is cool against Simon’s jaw as he passes closely by.

“Pain, joy? Shame?” His lyrical voice softens to a purring whisper in the hunter’s ear to join the deceiving gentility of a slender hand blushing the length of Simon’s chest and throat with cold as it passes from breastbone to jawline; an undressed palm and moon-pale fingers deliberate and soft catching under the point of the man’s chin. “Pleasure?” The word is crooned, mocking and sharp on Ophir’s tongue as his lips curl against the white of his fangs. “Are yours the hands that shall carve this empty flesh into something feeling and bright, yours such lips that shall touch my wounds and melt through my agonies--yours what flesh shall wash mine clean, scars and all? Your words, man of God, that shall bring me to my knees?”

From behind, his slim hands fan wide on the other’s shoulders, strong and broad and distantly warm to Ophir’s dull senses as he lifts himself to seethe out another purr in the hunter’s ear. “Tell me, Simon Belmont.” Teeth graze, the point of his fangs dangerously near to the warmth of his skin as his lips press to the softness found behind Simon’s ear. “Tell me that you think yourself greater than my curse. Tell me that you can stop me. Tell me what you shall do with me.”

[cursefelled]

cursegiven said: “Please teach me the secrets of leggy out."

“You have a long way to go before you are ready to wield such power.”

[nightslain]

@cursegiven​ said: “ I’ll save you ” (hey bitch here I come for your heart) || VINDICTIVE SUGGESTIONS

             “There is nothing of me left to save, my son. This was chosen for me before you ever were born to us, and this is a fate that is fairer to us all. At least, I think it so. It is only fair that I finish what I begun sooner than leaving my grief to my sons and daughters. I am only sorry it has taken me so very long to make it so...” A softness is written into the quiet of Leon’s expression; for all the solemnity of his answer, there is peace in it as much as sorrow, as much as regret. As much too as joy to see one of his blood again after so very long, even if he wished it could be that they met any other time, any other way.

               Or perhaps this is altogether for the best. The patriarch shifts, lifting himself from a throne both his and not to approach his newfound son with arms open in a gesture that is beseeching as it is earnest. “I stand where he stood. I am both he and myself. He is always on the edge of my soul while I keep his close to my heart, where I shall see it is never risen again from the grave. Look--” A hand flickers; the walls shimmer and churn and change, patterned into whatever Leon has seen to will into shape. The smile turning up the corners of his mouth is bittersweet at the sight of it. “The castle answers to me as it did to him, mine to keep, mine to guard. My cross to bear. It will no longer be yours or your children’s. I am happier for it.” Both hands reach then--wary of the whip he knows will sear him with rage-blind hate if he draws too near--to place either palm on his boy’s shoulders.

                “I beg that you do not burden yourself with me and my woes any longer, my child.”

[nightslain]

@cursegiven​ said: “Mon père,” he called out softly. And, as the patriarch turned his head, a mug was offered. Hot and steaming, the scent of cinnamon and apples wafting into the air. The younger Belmont smiled, though a bit awkward as he handled the mugs of cider. “I took the liberty of using the kitchens... I am not much of a cooker nor a mixer, so it is not quite like the old recipe, but it is not undrinkable, at least.”

“Oh, Simon...” Joy sings high in the sound of Leon’s voice as his golden head turns, smile bright and full of welcome as the scroll in hand is rolled shut. Better things to think of are clearly at hand. “My son, you are entirely too kind,” the lord coos as one hand gestures the man to sit, the other reaching out in delighted acceptance for the mug presumed his, “I am powerless but to appreciate anything you take the time to bring to me. I’m sure you must sell yourself short.”

A sip is savoured, warming and spiced as it spreads heat as it does content through the king’s reclining figure. Delight creases his eyes--the taste indeed familiar if not subtly different to the long faded memory of days before. “But then it has been so long since I had tasted what we made from the orchards of House Belmont that I would not perhaps know the difference. Though...” The Lord utters a laugh, sun-bright head bent to hide his smile behind the lip of his mug. “I remember very well that the wildlife would grow awfully drunk on the fallen apples after they fermented. I would do as I could to clear them away, but there would always be one lone creature that would get to them first. Poor things. Not that I can say much when one glass of wine sent me under the table for much of my life as a man.”

[nightslain]

@cursegiven​ said: © - put a hand on my muse’s back to steer them somewhere ||  MANHANDLE MY MUSE

                “Of all things...” The words are soft, ponderous in their faint tune of melancholy, and perhaps understood by nobody but himself. The picture his fingers are gliding the frame of is so wonderfully familiar, recognised in every quaint stroke of paint Leon remembers being unique to a singular artist of the time. The faces in it too, familiar beyond a shadow of doubt. One himself, of course--though Leon scarcely knows who that is some days--the other a man with hair that shines raven-dark under the white-gold sun. Rain-grey eyes. A smile Leon has not seen in centuries. His fingers tremble at the frame’s curving edge.

                “Of all things to keep...” And only then does a hand at his back remind him of the present. Simon of course is there, frowning and concerned, but gentle enough not to pry. Only to press the space between Leon’s shoulders to usher him on and away. Perhaps for the best. Leon smiles even bittersweetly as his fingers bid that painting goodbye.

                “I remember that summer,” he adds softly as he follows after him. “Like it were yesterday.”

[cursefelled]

@cursegiven​ said: [ deck ]   your muse decking mine in the face. || ❥     𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓  𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄   𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍   𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒   .

The pain is only half it, by comparison tame to the surprise; although having seen Simon fight so many times before should have made it obvious. The man’s strength is his fists as much as the whip itself, the full brunt of which having knocked Trevor not just off balance, not merely off his feet--but careening against the courtyard steps as bright, hot pain shatters behind his eyes.

It’s not until the sparks clear out of his sight that he notices blood rolling thick and dark down over his mouth.

“Ah...I see now why you choose your hands over the many other tools you were taught to use. Nothing so tried and true as what you are born with...” As a hand of Trevor’s own rises to smear away the red swelling from his nose.

As he rises still to his feet.

[cursefelled]

@cursegiven​ said: 6. our  muses  stumbling  upon  a  blood  trail  together. || BLOOD   LUST

The blood leaps black in the moonlight across the grass; trampled already underfoot by whatever had already crossed this way. Trevor almost smiles for the clumsiness of its path as he toes his boot along the rotted old spine of a tree felled in their way. That too shines wet under the moon, telling and bright, and most importantly of all, fresh. The cunning blue of Trevor’s eyes tilts back to those of his descendant, speaking aloud perhaps what the both of them think as he moves to scale the wood laid out in their way. “We tread the right path. It fled this way, a surprise though it is to me that it could flee at all.”

[cursefelled]

@cursegiven​ said:  take down . (for bear hugs) || 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃  &  𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄    

He must have been waiting. So much as even a word of his return has yet to cross Trevor’s lips, boots scarcely past the threshold, the cold barely kissed off his face by Belmont Manor’s all-encompassing warmth. And there is a greater warmth yet that collides with force enough to knock the air out of him as Trevor finds himself all at once smothered between his son’s sturdy arms and the carpeted floor he does not even remember tumbling upon.

Simon is, after all, as excitable as he is strong.

“The journey has not been so long as all that, Simon,” snickers mirthfully from the Belmont’s grinning mouth as he thumps his distant son fondly between the shoulder blades with a loose fist, “but the days have truly been so dull for you without a hope of a worthy spar? How troublesome for you! I wonder how in the world you kept yourself busy even for that little time.”

[cursefelled]

@cursegiven​ said: i cannot ride to battle like this. ( let him leggies be free ) || 𝚃𝙷𝙴   𝚆𝙷𝙸𝚃𝙴   𝚀𝚄𝙴𝙴𝙽   𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙼𝙿𝚃𝚂.

“Simon.” Exasperated. A frown pinches the elder’s brow as the coat is slung tighter about the other man’s shoulders, buckled and fastened with a certain finality that brooks no argument. Nor does the look in Trevor’s wise old eyes as either hand thumps his distant son upon the shoulders. “The ride is days long through the mountains upon the snow and ice. It will be treacherous even well-dressed for the occasion. You will not be joining us at all if you are not to garb responsibly. The least we would need is for you to catch chill, or frostbite--or, God forbid, your own death. T’would be a shame for a hero to meet his end for foolishness’ sake. You will wear what you are told.”

[cursefelled]

@cursegiven​ said: [  skill  ]  receiver  tries  to  assist  sender  in  learning  a  new  skill || NONVERBAL PROMPTS

“It’s not so complicated once you’ve done it a few times over. In relatively little time, it becomes hardly a skill so much as mere recollection; after all, there’s only so much skill you require to interpret a text and its instruction. Perhaps the method is just where you need some polish.” As Trevor himself smiles to remember the many times he was warned the making of good salve was an art all itself. Believed relatively little in his youth, only slightly more appreciated now he himself has made it one too many times. The herbs and rose-oil standing in the mortar under Simon’s hands soon to become a balm, if the fellow can see to finding that small art to making it himself. Trevor smirks, fatherly and fond as one hand eases out the hard, clenching bend to Simon’s arm.

“You’re a little too heavy-handed in the making. Try it this way--loosen your wrist, move from your elbow. And lighten the pressure off the pestle. You want to grind it to a balm--not to a puddle.”

[cursefelled]

@cursegiven​ said: ❝   it’s okay if you can’t find the words; let me take your coat off and these weight off your shoulders.   ❞ || * 𝚂𝙻𝙴𝙴𝙿𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙰𝚃 𝙻𝙰𝚂𝚃

And silence perhaps is ostensibly at least the better option. Trevor seems tired beyond his years tonight of all nights, something changed in the colour of his eyes and the youth of his face--unstuck in time as it has been for centuries, but solemn this hour in a way it seldom is. Simon is generous at least in trying to comfort him. The cloak lifted away from him by his distant son’s careful hands, a promise of taking the weight away with it--if it were a weight he could reach to begin with. He smiles to that, as the purity of people always does make him smile; a broad hand reaching out to grasp Simon’s shoulder in answer for his kindness.

“It is nothing.” Untrue. They both see through it as soon as he says it. Nothing he has words for, he thinks, is more truthful. The hearth at least still yawns as invitingly as always, more so for the cold having soaked Trevor through on his travels. “We shall sit, shall we? Worry about nothing for the evening, as I’d prefer it.”

[cursefelled]

@cursegiven​ said: “ do you regret what you did to get here ” || VINDICTIVE SUGGESTIONS

“What have I to regret in the first place?” There is so much conviction in that phantom voice that it sounds almost real, almost flesh and blood and noise moved through something human instead of something vanished into memory. Its resonance runs deep, pure, strong through the mind of his most recent son as Trevor answers him further. “Dracula was brought to his knees twice in the life that I had lived. I returned my family to their stolen glory. I found friends, I married, I brought sons into the world. I loved. I grieved. I died. Life as I see it were as complete for me as it could have been. There is no regret in knowing my time in the world yielded so much as it had.”

Well. Perhaps all but one. He wonders still how a vanished friend still fares somewhere in the world--whether he has woken at all, whether he never set foot upon the earth again. Perhaps he will live from his side of reality long enough to find out.

And in that, there is even more to be glad of than there is to be pained by. “I cannot reproach even so little as death, as I am here with you now. What bitterness can live so long as that joy, Simon?”

There is a smile somewhere in his spirit’s resolute voice. “All that was done...I know it for the better.”