moodstabilizer-fic

[moodstabilizer-fic]

mistakes were made

Summary: It was a stupid decision. But you needed the money. What were you thinking, breaking into the home of a vampire? A count, certainly, but more than that -- a monster. A home of jewels and riches guarded to the teeth meets a foolish peasant. Maybe you could have gotten away, if his son hadn’t found you.

Reader/OC.

“You aren’t supposed to be here.”

The words send a shiver down your spine, murmured so close to your ear you can feel his lips move against your skin. You instinctively pull away, flinching as a cold hand grips your upper arm and holds you where you stand. The grip is too tight and too strong to break easily, your fingers struggling for purchase against his as you try anyway.

“And yet you are. Pity,” he says, his voice high posh compared to yours.

“Let me go,” you say, desperately and angrily. You turn and stare up at him and are caught in his strange, golden gaze, those eyes trapping you more than his hand as, just for a moment, you forget why you’ve come here. Then it comes crashing back down on you like a wave, a strange heat flooding from the tip of your head to the end of your spine.

You have to get out of here.

   “I don’t think so,” he says, the words slow and considered. “No, I very much don’t. My father would be… terribly angry, to find you here. Murderously so. A little curr, crawling inside our walls like a rat.” His eyes rove over your face, that sharp gold so counter to his deep, inky black hair, cut just short enough that it hangs over his forehead where it isn’t slicked back. His features are just as sharp as his eyes, wild and fey. Unhuman.

   He’s caught you in some sort of parlor room, with doors on either side. One of them leads back towards the kitchens and the cellar you snuck in from. The other -- to where? Safety? You doubt it. To your left is a window that overlooks the cliffside. Not much to hope from there, either.

   “I didn’t do nothing,” you bite out in hushed tones, as if his father can hear you there, cowering in the parlor. Maybe he can. You’ve no idea where he is. Maybe whatever noise his son heard is bringing him here too, only he’s taking his time about it. You struggle harder against the man’s grip.

   “I’m sure you did ‘nothing’ at all. Certainly didn’t slip any of our silverware into your greedy little pockets, did you, you little beast?” He pokes a finger at the bag wrapped around your waste, feeling at what lay inside it. “Certainly you wouldn't have dared?”

   You blush, furiously, and he hungrily watches the blood rise to your cheeks. His land lifts to cup your face almost tenderly, and you scratch and claw at his wrist, trying to tear it away. He just smiles at you. When he speaks, you can see his fangs.

   “Little thing, you have no idea what you’re playing at,” he whispers, inclining his head closer until your lips nearly touch. “I could kill you in a moment, myself, do you know that? I could sunder your pretty little head from your shoulders and it wouldn’t cost me more than a bath afterwards. I think you ought to be begging me.”

   You stare up at him, horrified and incredulous.

   He stares unblinking back. “‘Please, sir’,” He says, sotto voce. “‘Don’t kill me.’ It’s very easy to say, isn’t it?”

   “P-please, sir,” you repeat, gritting your teeth. “D-don’t kill me.”

   “That’s very good. See? How very good you can be, when you aren’t stealing from your betters. Drop the bag.”

   You do before you even realize you’re doing it, your hand uncinching the small knot that kept it on your waistline in an instant. Your collection falls to the ground with a series of clattering clangs, the sounds echoing strangely across the cobbled stone walls. Your eyes never leave his, and you know that he’s trapped you in some new, dangerous way. Some way far more terrifying.

   “Good dog,” he says. “Good little beast. Take a few steps backwards, for me.”

   Your feet walk backwards without your instruction, your muscles quaking as you try to fight the compulsion, your legs straining. As you stop, he looks you up and down, taking in every inch of your no doubt ragged appearance. Your patchwork clothing, the hungry muscle beneath it. The weary weight of your gaze. Whatever he sees there, he does not react to it, his face never changing from it’s calculating visage.

   “Alright,” he drawls, finally. “I will help you, little curr. Isn’t that sweet of me? How kind, to save you from my father’s wrath.”

   “W-why?” You ask, unable to help yourself.

   His eyes turn cold, disappointed you’ve dared to speak. “Because I have manners, of course. But it will cost you.”

   You reach up and clap a hand around your neck, fearfully eyeing his teeth. He smiles, amused.

   “Oh, you poor, wretched thing,” he says, and then he has you in his grasp again, his strength too much as he wrestles your hand away and to your side before reaching down and grazing his teeth across the flesh of your neck without any pressure. “If I want it, I will have it,” he murmurs against your throat. He plants a small kiss there, at your clavicle. Despite his cool touch, you feel warm. Your heartbeat thrums in your ears.

   He guides you towards a large chaise lounge and takes a seat on it himself, leaving you standing between his knees. “Now, stand still for me,” he orders, before pressing his hand into the space between your legs, his thumb running over your breeches.

   Indignantly, you begin to jerk yourself away only for your eyes to catch him again. Your body goes still. He hums a little, as he presses against you. “Now what, do you think, is proper punishment for what you’ve done today? A slap on the wrist, maybe? Or a taking of the whole hand?”

   When you don’t respond, he presses harder, and your breath hitches. “What do you say, curr?”

   “I don’t know,” you tell him, desperately. “I don’t know. Please.”

   “Please what?” He asks, carefully undoing your front laces. His fingers begin sliding beneath the fabric there. “I will not ask again.”

   “Please -- stop,” you beg.

   “Stop? Oh, sweetling, no. No, I’m afraid that you don’t get to ask.”

   His fingers slip between the fabric and your skin, sliding down and dipping until they touch your lips, feeling at you down there. His eyes hold yours as he far too gently caresses parts of you that aren't his to feel. Slowly he rolls his fingers around your clit.

"Do you know, I think I've a mind for what you can offer up in penance," he murmurs, fingers moving against you until you begin to feel the uneasy beginnings of something in your gut. When he begins to push one finger inside you he does it slow, teasing through the slightest wetness there, so that you feel every centimeter until he's knuckle deep. Your legs shake just a little when he draws it out and pushes back in again faster.

"Don't --"

"Do not finish that sentence."

He fingers you carefully, intently, eyes roaming over your face and swallowing up every reaction you give. He seems to feed on the way your breath hitches, the way you wince against the slightest pressure on each upward thrust. When he starts to add a second finger, you shiver, your hand landing in his shoulder, your nails digging into his coat. He doesn't stop. With two fingers deep inside you, he starts to rub your clit with his thumb, slowly and softly in a way that speaks to years of experience.

You give a small, short whine. You feel so vulnerable here, captured by this cruel man, unknowing of where one far crueler may be lurking. But you try to quiet yourself. You won't give him more satisfaction.

He tsks, and pulls his hand free. "Kneel," he orders. When you hesitate, he repeats, "Kneel," and you fall to your knees between his legs. One of your hands comes to rest against his thigh, the other on the floor in front of you, holding you steady. He begins undoing the laces on his own breeches and your eyes widen as you realize what it's come to.

"Do not even think to bite," he tells you. "Or I promise you, I will bite harder."

He pulls himself free casually, giving a single stroke of his already hard cock before letting it hang towards you. It's as pale to look at as he is, but far thicker than you might have expected for someone so lean. It's long, too, though you've seen longer, and for that at least you're thankful. He reaches a hand out to caress your face before his fingers slip into your hair and he tugs you down towards him.

There is nothing else to do.

You open your mouth.

The head of his cock slides in as slowly as his fingers had worked, settling against your tongue and tasting of salt and skin. You whimper a little as he begins to press you in closer, as you feel that head begin to inch towards the back of your throat, and you panic as you realize he isn't stopping to let you adjust. He pushes until you gag, a horrible wretching sound echoing between you, sounding awful to your own ears but he groans like he likes it and presses all the deeper. His cock slides down your throat and you have no choice but to swallow to keep from choking around it. Your throat works against him as saliva begins to pool. Gently he pulls himself back out and lets you breathe.

You already have tears in your eyes, and it's barely begun. You cough, and hope it somehow buys you time, but all it does is make his fingers twitch in your hair until you're open for him again. He takes his time fucking your face, working you open for him until your jaw aches and you feel a mess. Spit drips down your lips but at least it means he feels wet inside you, taking some of the pain away. He makes you gag again, and again, until you're almost afraid he's going to push too far, but he never does, always pulling back to let you suck in air and swallow back the fear of bile.

"Put a little bit of effort into the saving of your life, will you?" He asks, releasing your head. You stare up at him, fear making your brain foggy, until you realize what he's asking for. Burning indignancy meets and melts into the fear, and for a moment you consider denying him, until his eyes turn cold and his lips begin to move again.

You take him back inside your mouth before he can force you to, sick with yourself. It's harder to bob of your own volition, harder to make the decision to press in deep the way you think he likes it. You run your tongue over the length of him, mouthing against his cock like you love it just to save your throat from more discomfort, and if he knows what you're doing he lets you get away with it.

Eventually he grabs your head again and presses deep one last time before slowly pulling you off of him.

"Get up," he says.

You stand, legs wobbling and knees aching from the pressure of having sat on them too long. He tugs your breeches down to the floor and you shiver in the cool air, hands crossed around yourself like that will somehow shield you.

"Lay down."

You do, laying back against the chaise lounge with your head pressed against the head of it, and close your eyes.

"No. Look at me," he orders.

You whimper again and open them as he kneels over you, spreading your legs wide. His golden eyes roam over your face again, taking in the fear. He smiles.

"This will be good for you, little curr. Learning a lesson and taking my cock, all at once. Why, it's a gift I'm giving you. Say thank you."

You bite the inside of your cheek hard, until you taste iron.

His eyes do not leave yours. He does not repeat himself, this time.

"T-thank you," you whisper.

"Good," he whispers back, "Just like that."

He doesn't remove his pants, just leaves them unlaced as he slowly slides the head of his cock against your cunt. You're sickened by how slick he finds you, desperately wishing you could look away from that smile on his face. He rubs the length of himself against your wetness, letting it warm and wet his cock, all the while teasing at your clit. You shiver when he pulls back and begins, finally, to press in.

He is far less gentle than he was with his hands. His cock sinks into you more smoothly than you'd like, but you still feel the pull of it, the slight burn that says you weren't ready enough yet, and as he finds the last few inches inside you, you begin to whine, thinking it can't all fit. But it does. He buries himself within you, and he fits.

"Warm little thing," he breathes, before humming. "Tight."

You blush again, one arm swinging up so that you can bite at your wrist as he begins to fuck you in earnest. He pulls it from your mouth and pins both your hands to the top of the lounge, keeping you open for him. Each thrust shakes your body, pressing your head firmly against the fabric over, and over again. And your body betrays you, slowly growing accustomed to his cock inside you until you can feel your clit twitching, your insides clenching.

"So wet for me," he says. "Does that surprise you? That you could be so soaked for a monster?"

He smiles and adjusts your legs until your thighs are pressed against each other, legs lifted over his shoulders. You leave your arms above your head, half afraid of what he'll do if you don't. When he presses his cock back inside you, he hits a sweet spot that has you gasping.

"It doesn't surprise me, truly. You looked the sort from the moment I stepped into the parlor. Desperate little thing."

He fucks you hard in that position, not giving you any space to think at all, before letting your legs fall away again. He gets closer, leaning over you until you can feel his breathe against your ear.

"Do you know what I think?" He breathes. "I think... You'll enjoy this."

You stare up at the ceiling as his teeth graze your neck again until he finds the right spot. Then he opens wide, and bites down. His teeth sink into your flesh like a knife, and you gasp, the pain lancing through you and burning far more than you could have prepared yourself for. But as he begins to drink that part of it fades, even as the pulsing of your blood in your ears seems to grow stronger.

There is a head rush to it, the draining. The world turns a little brighter, the moonlight streaming in through the window looking beautiful in your eyes as your body tries to adjust.

And then, pleasure. It starts deep in your gut, and you clench around his cock again, feeling like you're pulling him in deeper somehow, before spreading through every limb in a radial shower. You gasp, and then moan, your hands grasping at his coat, twitching and flinching. As he pulls away he licks the blood from your throat slowly, like he can't let it go to waste. The warm, rhythmic motion of his tongue against your skin has you writhing. The wounds ache, but you feel... satisfied, somehow. Full.

He presses his forehead to yours and laughs, the sound somehow exquisite in your newfound bliss. "As I thought."

He thumbs your clit again as he fucks you thoroughly, sinking all the way in on every thrust until you feel like you can't stop shaking. The pleasure hits an edge you can barely percieve and you dangle over it, twitching around him. And then he leans down and softly bites the skin of your throat again, and you topple over the edge.

You can't stifle the moans as he continues to pound into you, his cock twitching inside you now, and his thrusts begin to grow more ragged, less controlled, until finally he flips you over and pushes into you from behind. He lasts only a few strokes before pressing himself deep and coming. You feel the heat of it sink inside you, far warmer than the rest of him, and only then does your head begin to return to you.

Fuck. Fuck.

He chuckles as he pulls out and begins to lace himself back up. "I almost enjoyed that," he says, his voice throaty still. "I must say, you taste better than I might have expected. Perhaps I should try rat more often."

You push yourself up slowly, the blood loss making your head spin. You reach up and feel the wounds, noting that they still bleed sluggishly. When you pull your hand away, it's painted red.

"Go, then," he said with a simple wave of his hand.

"You said -- you said you'd help me," you whisper, a fury rising from deep inside you.

He blinks. "And so I shall. By not telling my father where you are, or that you ever entered at all. I would leave in a hurry, if I were you. He should be back from his ride soon."

You bolt upright and begin moving, only for him to call back after you.

"Your clothing?"

You flush, and work yourself back into your breeches, before turning tail and running back the way you came, his laughter echoing behind you.

Out through the kitchens. Out through the cellar. Into the cool, winter air. You stare up at the full moon, and you are afraid. There are still a few miles to cross before you will be safely home.

You run.