Chapter Text
When Isaac delves its tongue inside the fresh wound, prying it open and licking at the raw flesh, the Belmont throws his head back and howls, a deep, guttural sound soaked with anger, and oh, what a pretty song it is when it comes from his bruised throat!
Isaac just can’t resist the sight, and it sinks its teeth into his skin again, near the Adam’s apple: it bends under its jaw, supple and salty with sweat under its tongue, but much like the man himself, it doesn’t break. Isaac growls in frustration: it could always use the dagger it had stolen from the Belmont, but that would be too easy and crass.
No, it allows itself to think as it admires the Belmont thrashing against Abel’s solid grasp, it yearns to make the wretched murderer weep and beg with nothing more than its own strength. It needed nothing to snuff out the fire burning in the man’s scarred chest but its own sheer will.
Isaac wipes some of the sweat rolling down its bangs. Since when did it start yearning, like some sort of person? Weapons don’t yearn. Weapons don’t have a will. Weapons are used. But there’s no one to use Isaac, except its Lord’s memory.
Surely, He would be proud at His servant’s accomplishments. It is the one hope Isaac dares to cling onto, the very reason its heart has never stopped beating ever since its life ended.
So may He allow it, Isaac will live, and yearn, and most of all enjoy the Belmont’s wheezes of agony, serves him right for being alive.
“Maniac… filthy…” the man mutters with cracked voice. His body is limp, but he still somehow has the strength to glare at Isaac with his wolfish eyes. It sneers at them. They remind it too much of another man whom Isaac dearly wishes to gut apart like a pig.
It delights, then, in sitting on the man’s lap, feeling the shivers of revulsion vibrate through both of their bodies. Belmont turns his face away, and with that, he has lost the battle already.
“You think you’re so special, don’t you, Belmont?” Isaac purrs, dragging a nail down the scar adorning the man’s eye. Oh, it could jab it inside the eyeball and pluck it clean! That would be fun. “You think of yourself as the mighty vampire hunter, the hero of the land who slayed Lord Dracula.”
“Let go of me, you rancid beast…”
At that, Isaac laughs. And laughs, and laughs, until its chest spasms, because he’s so amusing, thinking it would be hurt by some words! It, who learned that it did not deserve to live the moment it was forced into this world! It, who dragged with it the failure of allowing its Lord to perish!
“Hahaha!” It wiped a tear from its eye. “True, I am a beast. And do you want to know what you are?”
It has an even better idea. Isaac climbs off the Belmont’s lap - although part of it couldn’t help but miss the heat of his shame - crouches, and puts all of its strength to spread open the man’s legs. It lets the man have all sorts of sordid ideas about what it plans to do, because it’s sure they are quite amusing, it could tell by the resistance he’s putting in shutting them close again. But Isaac is still a Devil Forgemaster, and it still carries part of Lord Dracula’s soul inside it, and most importantly it is not wounded and restrained, because it has won in His name, yes it is a good tool and with His will it can do anything.
“Meat,” it drawls. “Bloody, succulent meat, good for nothing but be devoured. And tell me, Belmont…” It bares its teeth in all of their stained glory. “What do beasts eat?”
And with that, Isaac clasps its mouth on the Belmont’s inner thigh, right on the muscle, and squeezes and yanks and dig and tears and at last its canines pierce the skin and fat; and hot blood dribbles out of the wound, the coppery syrup that nourished creatures much more worthy than itself drenches its tongue and finds its way into its stomach, and the Belmont’s shriek is one of visceral fear.
Isaac was famished from some delicious blessed meat.