#dravorctor

He tried. So hard.

But his injury, the sickness overtaking his body and his delirium had him trapped as much as lying there was. Within Julia’s mountain nook did she briefly leave him heal, dressing his wounds and giving him medicine before leaving after Hector. He thanked her even through his struggle to stay alive. But she never returned. Instead, what came for him was neither who he expected nor wanted, as the figure that nearly crushes him isn’t Hector, either.

The struggle meant nothing. He was taken advantage of once again, blood soaked bandages torn from him and the rest of the linens keeping him warm. Trevor is cold and growing more so by the second, as Dracula made it all too clear of what his intentions are. He can hear that voice - he swears it sounded like Hector, but hollow and distant - telling him that there’s no hope. Not when he needs to be taught why one does not cross the king of vampires, the Dark Lord.

He hates how vulnerable he’s become, too weak to even strike Dracula or put much effort into pushing his face back. Nothing stopped the monster’s fangs from violently puncturing his neck, holding him down and draining him dry. Parts of his body went instantly numb, his legs bent at the knee in an attempt to push against this oppressive shadow, but no strength came to aid him. Trevor’s heart, as fast as it was pounding before, begins to slow down with his squirming. He knows now that he will die, yet. His body, his soul, his very being now belongs to Dracula to do as he pleases. His sense of feeling still remains in part, being pulled into a sickeningly familiar embrace saved for lovers, fangs gone from his neck and to his chest. He gasps for breath that does him no justice, lungs failing to function fully. His body is betraying him as Trevor can feel the end coming, his fingers curling unconsciously against familiar silver hair, back arched with the help of claw tipped hands and his mouth now slack and violated.

It’s the last thing he sees.

The kiss administered a part of his own blood - oh God, he is tasting himself and that of something infernal - and he just. Cannot. Fight anymore. Dracula silently, all while having stolen the face of his newest companion, force fed his captive. Dark blood is seeping into their kiss, belonging to the Count himself, and it tastes like liquid sin. There’s a spark and the fallen hunter can kiss him back if only to get more at that taste. It’s the curse making him move even as he is dead. It has to be. He can only pretend that it’s Hector, that after this things will go back to normal and he can run home to his wife with two new friends for her to share. Not the punishment of becoming a likely plaything for an angry beast who will resume his bloody reign over Wallachia.

And he hears it. Or doesn’t, as his heart stopped moments ago. His body has died. His spirit is sold even when it was never for purchase. Stolen by his family’s ancient enemy who, this time, isn’t going to stop when his heart does.