Bloodstream [Part 2] - fanfic
Title: Bloodstream [Part 2]
Summary: Greg Lestrade hadn't expected to come to the attention of a Vampire Lord. Then again he hadn't expected that he would murder a vampire either. Initially posted here for the BBC Sherlock Kink Meme.
Characters: Mycroft Holmes, DI Lestrade
Pairing: Mystrade
Rating: M
Warnings: slavery, dub-con/non-con, vampires, blood play.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
Part 2
“I have my own room,” he said slowly.
“I am aware.”
“Then...”
Any other words were gone, his mouth going dry as the air temperature dropped. Or at least it felt like that, goose bumps creeping up his arm. Mycroft’s expression was still mild but he could see the chill creeping in. See it sinking and twisting.
“Do not make me ask again.”
Mycroft doesn’t actually say that. But he felt that intent. There, Greg wished he had actually spoken because that would make things clearer. Would have really drummed it home. It would be a there, out there in the open, and he wouldn’t have to read into it. Not that he needed to, the intention settling into Greg’s mind, unyielding. It was in that facial expression, becoming clearer by the second. He had said after all that any command must be obeyed. Every command. Even this. And he knew what his duties entailed.
Sex. Feeding and sex were linked with vampires. He was Mycroft’s fuck toy. He was there to lie back as those long, slick fangs slid into his neck, a gentle pull against his skin as his Master took blood. His blood. While he moaned like some helpless virgin, overcome with lust - something he had already done he realised remembering earlier today, lying down in the cell, chained up, his cock growing hard …
(that wasn’t supposed to happen why did it why the fuck did it he wasn’t turned on by that he couldn’t be)
His stomach clenched at the thought. He didn’t want to go through with that again. He just needed some time alone. Christ. He hadn’t had a goddamn second to himself since he murdered the Official: a right twat skipping about while commenting on his baby girl like she was a piece of meat. The prison he had been kept in had been an open area, surrounded by others. And then today: almost dying, being dragged around by Anthea, waiting for Mycroft.
Just a second. Just a moment. He was not ready to lie down and be violated like that. Christ. And hadn’t he already been fed on. He wasn’t young; he couldn’t take this - fuck, fuck, fuck. The word rang through his head as his eyes refused to leave his perfectly dressed, smug bastard of an owner.
Why now? Did it have to be now?
Sleep would be such a blessing. Just to fall back. Black out. For a second get away from this. He wasn’t going to sleep tonight because he knew he had to obey. Ellie was at stake, Peter was at stake, his Maggie was at stake. All of their lives hung on his ability to obey orders. He drew in a deep breath, steeling himself for what was going to happen. Maybe it was better he got it over sooner rather than later. Then the build up would vanish and then he wouldn’t have to worry about that and working out an escape plan. Yeah, like a Band-Aid. Just get rid of it.
That didn’t fill him with any sense of relief. In fact it seemed to steep the dread further, letting it rest in his bones. He felt so very cold at that moment as he stood just in the doorway with Mycroft’s full attention. Deadly calculating eyes. Another second ticked by and he knew he had to respond now.
“Yes, sir.”
The words come out more choked than he would’ve liked. But at least they seem to snap him back to reality and into motion as he hurried upstairs, eyes briefly flickering to Mycroft’s room as he passed by the second floor and knowing that soon, soon he’d be there. In there. In that rich bed that Anthea had shown him earlier today. Had she known? She had to. She seemed to know everything.
The moment he reached his room he shut the door swiftly behind him and sunk to the ground. He stared at the blank walls for a minute, mind going numb and then like a robot he rose. He went to his wardrobe, stripping off his clothes and locating his pyjamas: long blue cotton pants and a plain white t-shirt. Both incredibly soft and a far more expensive version than what he wore at home.
From then on he passed into the bathroom, taking his time to re-brush his teeth, wash his face, let the tiny droplets fall into the sink as he stared down the drain. More deep breaths. His hand reached out for the hand towel and he gently dried his face. Looking up he blinked hard as if that would shock him from this nightmare and back home.
It didn’t. He back into his room, packed his clothes away, knew that he was stalling. Stalling. Just go now. He shut the wardrobe and his feet padded down to Mycroft’s room. It was like he was detached from his body as he walked down. That he wasn’t really there. His body went through the motions while he watched on with mild fascination and horror that it was taking him to his very own rape.
He reached Mycroft’s room and went in, seeing that the covers had already moved back. He turned his head to the left to see the bathroom light on and Mycroft’s silhouette moving inside there. His eyes went back to the bed. If he got in there he could just fall asleep. He was tired enough and had a talent for just dropping off, something work had granted him. Mycroft wouldn’t disturb him - would he? Either way it was a plan albeit a weak one.
Just what side of the bed to get into. At home he slept on the right side, the one closest to the door. Right now that was looking the most appealing but what if Mycroft …
Well fuck him, decided Greg. Fuck him. He was not going to accommodate for the bastard’s personal preferences. No way in hell. He was tired. He just wanted to sleep. He went straight to the right side, slipping under cool covers and settling down, turning onto his side, facing away from the bathroom, pulling the covers up around him, closing his eyes.
He tried to relax. Tried to sink into the bed and darkness. But his whole body was wired for attention as he picked up every tiny sound from Mycroft. The sound of the toothbrush being placed down, the sound of a towel being hung up, the sound of - so many tiny details bleeding into his conscious and with each one he knew it was coming closer towards him.
The door opened. Mycroft was moving behind him. He felt the mattress dip as Mycroft moved into the bed, heard the brief brush of air as his wings settled. Greg’s stomach tensed, twisted as a cool hand snaked forward, clasping around his torso and pulling.
Heart racing, knowing it was futile he allowed it, shifting back so he was more or less embraced by the monster. Lying against him, Greg felt a soft leanness, felt Mycroft’s body through his pyjamas. Realised that his Master slept in nothing. Was that a normal thing? Or a sign of what was to come? Soft puffs of air were felt on the back of his neck. Was Mycroft going to move in now? Those lips were so close. So close. When was it going to start? When the fuck was it going to start?
He licked his dry lips - should he ask? No that might just get the ball rolling. Maybe nothing was going to happen. But if nothing was going to happen than why make him sleep here. Couldn’t he just be in his room. That would be nicer. Better. Fuck.
Oh.
Mycroft’s thumb was moving in a slow circle. Gentle pressure was applied. It was nice. Like a mother trying to calm a child. There was nothing sexual there, just a reassurance. Maybe. He wasn’t sure. The tension in his body started to lessen. Slowly, slowly.
Nothing was going to happen tonight. Tonight he could just sleep. Sleep. Sounded so lovely.
It took him an hour and then he slipped.
-
He awoke curled up, the covers pulled up to his chin. He pushed into the mattress, the pillow so soft underneath him. Waiting for Peter to come rushing in. Jump on him. Prattle on about what he was going to do at school today. Maggie would roll out of bed, vanish into the bathroom and tell him to make breakfast that morning, to drop the kids off at school on the way to work.
Then he’d go and drag Ellie out of bed, her groaning and shouting at him to ‘leave me be!’, and - an icy jolt spreading throughout his body and his eyes snapped open. He wasn’t at home. He wasn’t at home. He was in London. With a vampire. He was a slave. The rush of yesterday sped before his eyes, his mind catching up to this moment.
Thin strips of sunlight cast the room in a warm glow. He could hear soft breathing beside him. Mycroft must still be asleep. He pulled himself up, taking great care not to disturb his Master and once sitting up looked over at his Master. In the golden glow, hair mussed from sleep, the pillow wrapped in his arms - like Peter with his Paddington bear - and the way his face seemed void of any calculation, Mycroft looked … normal. Human. Despite the wings on his back, skin membrane stretched.
Was this the same man who swept in, took a man off death row and seemed to be a hundred steps ahead of the game? It was like someone had taken that man away and planted someone else. He half wanted to reach out and touch, to confirm that that was Mycroft. Make sure. He felt a pull towards the vampire. He’d only need a touch, just a brush of skin.
Mycroft’s eyes opened at that moment, a shiver ran through him at that those eyes now suddenly alert. There was a lazy quality to that, even a furrow of confusion in those brows.
“Er, morning,”
The eyes didn’t leave him, the human façade crumbling.
Every instinct told him to run right there and then. He wanted nothing more to do than to vanish from the room. He could do that actually. Go to the bathroom. Get the hell out of here. His hand curled around the cover, ready to throw it off and head off when an iron grasp gripped his wrist.
Mycroft acted in less than a second and was up, pushing Greg down. He bucked against him, crying out but Mycroft gripped both his hands, the rest of his body pinned. Looking up he saw the difference in those eyes. The pupils were a little too big, eyes drinking him in.
Shit.
A breath escaped and he tried to roll of the bed, twisting. Mycroft came down, and there - fangs slid deep into his neck, latching on. Pain caught hold of him, panic seeping in, heart jumping, he was going to die, again, he had to get away, had to … it was like … that was … he felt warm. So wanted. Something stirred in his gut, something that sent small shocks of pleasure throughout. His eyelids fluttered close just as a Mycroft’s wings spread out. It should be threatening but it felt safe. A shield against the world. Just them. It was … Mycroft’s lips pressed onto his neck and he was aware that he was loosing blood but it felt so nice. Like …
He needed more, more of Mycroft. He needed to sink into him, needed to be with him. Each swallow placed him closer to his Master, each swallow he was becoming closer and closer. He needed. Needed to feel flesh on flesh. Needed friction. He tried to move, tried to get his body into a better position, tried to rub himself against his Master. He needed this. Now.
Please, please, anything to release the burn in his gut. Please, please - he moaned it, needing it all now. Doubts vanished, fears were gone as he was pulled closer and closer to his Master’s core. Into his being. Sustaining. He was a life force, a link. More. Please. Now.
Another long moan, his hands gripping into the sheets, Mycroft no longer needing to hold him in place.
His eyes opened as Mycroft withdrew. He watched in fascination at the red that stained Mycroft’s lips. The red. His blood. Mycroft’s tongue slid out and licked those last beads of blood up before bending his head down again. Greg tensed for a moment but all he felt was a gentle suckle, a light kiss, barely a brush and then Mycroft was up, heading to the bathroom.
Greg lay there, unable to move and it was only after a solid few minutes of listening to the fall of shower water that he asked the empty room.
“What the hell.”
It hadn’t felt like that last time. Last time Mycroft had fed from him, he had fought the entire time. Yes he had been vaguely turned on, he recalled darkly, but that was different to how he felt now. Now he felt … it terrified him. How could he feel something that strong? His mind had vanished. He hadn’t thought.
But he had. Thoughts he shouldn’t have. Things he shouldn’t feel. Common sense was dragging its way into his conscious like nails on chalkboard knowing that something wasn’t right about that. He hated Mycroft. He hated vampires. Pleasure was one thing but that - that was not mere pleasure. That was on a whole other level.
Was it a drug, something released into his system? It had to be because thinking of it now there had to be a reason why people liked being bitten by a vampire. Not everyone was a masochist so there had to be a reason why.
The shower turned off and Greg decided to move before Mycroft came back in. He rolled out of bed, flexing his toes and focusing on his breathing as a rush hit him. Blood loss. Again with that feeling. He moved forward slowly, deciding to head downstairs to the kitchen. He needed to eat. Drink. And think.
Making it into the kitchen he popped open the fridge, finding the bread. Toast. He could do that. And a cup of tea. He wasn’t much of a tea drinker but as there was no coffee this would have to do. Oh and a glass of water which he took in small sips while waiting for the toast.
He sat up on the island bench, eyes flickering to the second fridge, which had a pass code on it. Mycroft’s. He had a fair idea what was in that: bags of donated blood. Every six months every individual over the age of fifteen was expected to go and donate. Those who served were exempt naturally from this. He had to wonder why they didn’t just use the donation system, get rid of the slavery. But he knew the answer - he’d been fifteen at the time, unsure if he would serve or not, and had asked his father.
“It’s the difference between freeze-packed and fresh.”
He was fresh; he was a direct source of life. Vitality. That kind of bullshit. He couldn’t even begin to wonder what kind of life he would have at forty-one. He was old, far too old. The only people his age serving had been doing so since they were fifteen and even that was rare.
When he was halfway through his toast, tearing it into tiny pieces and picking at it, Anthea appeared.
“Morning,” he said with a dip of his head.
“Morning, Gregory,”
His chest tightened at that. Gregory. Gregory. Mycroft loomed in his mind’s eye, deceptive and all-controlling.
“Please, just Greg … Gregory makes me feel …”
She gave a nod, understanding for him clouding her eyes before she shut that down, slipping into the impersonal personal assistant.
“So ready for today?”
Not in any way. What he would do to just have some time to himself. Still he pushed that back, forcing a small smile on his face as he said, “What have you got for me?”
What followed was a trip to the Gym, a very special one just for slaves about six blocks from Mycroft’s. He felt incredibly out of place surrounded by all the twenty-somethings and knew he wasn’t the only one picking up on that as dozen of eyes latched onto him with the accompanying ‘what the hell’ look. But besides that it was alright. He was given a program (weights three times a week, spin class three times with a run substituting and Bikram yoga twice a week), and even though that was purely to keep him looking ‘pretty’ in Anthea’s words at least it would be a good outlet for him, something to distract him.
Well everything except the Bikram yoga. Forty degree room. Yoga. He wasn’t sure how he was going to cope, and was not comforted when his personal trainer noted how it would increase his flexibility, a knowing look in his eyes.
Fantastic.
Great.
Sarcasm became his rock as he was led through the complex before being sent off to yet another clothes store. This time Anthea let him have free range and he grabbed some jeans, a nice leather jacket and a few simple t-shirts, carefully looking at his options and going for comfortable and practical. It was the longest he had ever spent shopping for clothes besides yesterday naturally. Exercise gear was also bought with the shop assistant insisting that he get the blood red t-shirt, saying it was his colour. He naturally just stocked up on navy and black.
And then they were off once more. He couldn’t help but hope they were stopping somewhere for some food, the dig of hunger spiking as they passed by café after café. Something nice. And coffee. Yes, that sounded lovely. He could picture it already: a hot cup of coffee and some sandwich. This time they pulled up in front of a small jewellery store. Very upmarket and old. He swallowed knowing all to well this wasn’t to get a nice pair of cufflinks. About a decade ago Vampires had moved on from tattooing and branding those in service, realising the problems that came up when thralls were sold off or went back to their regular lives. Now collars were in fashion with the Vampire’s Coven Crest on it. It sent a message: that they were property. They were owned. They weren’t free.
A bell jingled as they entered and Greg blinked when he saw Mycroft there. Alone. He felt a tug at his core. The morning flashed before his eyes: that warmth, that happiness, so unnatural, not him, but so very right spiking briefly in his gut, his cheeks growing warm. Mycroft gave him a small nod in greeting before turning to Anthea and talking to her about the morning. Not wanting to draw attention to himself and mildly annoyed that they talked about him as if he wasn’t there, he looked around. Gazed at the gold. At the tiny pearls. Calculated a rough estimate of how much this would all be worth.
A side door opened and a little man appeared. Old and shrivelled and hunched over with a large cloak on him, he placed two boxes on the glass counter. Narrowing his eyes, Greg blinked realising the man was a vampire. He hadn’t thought they could get so old.
“Here they are, Mister Holmes,” he said in a deep voice.
“Thank you, Orlok,” said Mycroft, all manners.
The old vampire turned to Greg, a smile cracking on his old wrinkled face.
“Is this yours? What a fine specimen indeed. A tad old but no matter,” he said, eyes darting about, “Still let’s get it on him,”
The old vampire - Orlok - opened the boxes to reveal a thin long golden chain with a tiny crest hanging off as a pendant and in the other box a leather wristband with the crest moulded in. Greg didn’t move, eyeing off the boxes.
Mycroft turned his full gaze on him, giving a small nod that said ‘come here now’, and he moved forward, keeping silent as Orlok fastened it on him. The necklace pendant rested just on his sternum, the gold cold against his skin. The wristband was tight, fitting neatly. He fought the urge to tug at it, keeping himself still.
Would Ellie have to wear something like this? Or something worse? This was all right considering as collars went. Dog-like collars were fairly common amongst vampires and while Mycroft seemed to be willing to preserve some small sense of his dignity, he knew that he was incredibly lucky and Ellie may not be.
Orlok peered at him some more as if he was an animal in a zoo.
(which you are, pet, whispered a small voice in the back of his mind)
“A bit quiet isn’t he?” said Orlok speaking to Mycroft, and Greg dug his thumbnail into his hand. “No, wait - there it is. You have some trouble in this one, my boy. He’s learning though.”
Orlok turned from Greg, placing his attention on Mycroft.
“Indeed he is.” Mycroft smiled, light dancing in his cool eyes, “I’ll have Anthea patch up details with you. Farewell, Orlok.”
He gave a small bow of his head, as if in deference to the older vampire.
“Farewell, Mycroft. Good luck with that one.”
The two vampires shared meaningful looks and then Mycroft headed to the door. Judging how Anthea started talking to Orlok and how Mycroft kept the door open Greg hastened to follow.
Leaving the store behind and coming out into the fresh air was a relief. However as quick as he was out in the fresh air, the sun out and warm he was back into another black car. The car pulled out of its parking spot and set off while Mycroft glanced at his phone, finger on the screen, occasionally dragging it down. Gregory watched in mild fascination, wondering what he was doing when his stomach grumbled. Loudly.
Mycroft’s finger froze.
“Are you hungry?”
Another rumble.
“Yeah.”
Mycroft nodded and tapped on the glass that separated them from the driver. It rolled down.
“Take us to Cinna’s,”
“Yes, sir.”
The window went up again, the car shifting into the left lane.
-
Seated on the second level in a private booth overlooking the street Mycroft tilted the AB blood in his glass, watching the ongoing in the restaurant, the flow and dance of society. Cinna’s had been established well before the reveal and since now had become a place of the Elite. It was a brilliant place to simply observe. He noted who had picked up a new slave, who was sitting with whom, who was dressing beyond their pay grade, who was feeding fresh and who wasn’t.
Gregory had been well-behaved so far. It had been somewhat of a risk taking him here, so soon. He was well aware that Gregory’s behaviour reflected directly on him, but he was not disappointed. Sitting straight, table manners without major fault as he slowly picked at his lunch (something playing on his mind), eyes down unless spoken too, voice pleasant in reply.
Then again he had expected nothing less. Gregory held a degree of intelligence and self-preservation and that was showing as his pet knew when to pick his battles.
He placed the glass down.
“What’s on your mind?”
Gregory’s eyes flew up, but no verbal response.
“Tell me.”
There was a pause and then there was a shift. Gregory’s demeanour changed from unsure to a seasoned officer, head tilting slightly to the side.
“Why did I react like that this morning?”
Ah, that. Maybe he had pushed too hard. No, not even a maybe. He should’ve been more discreet but something about the soft expression that had coloured Gregory’s features … as if for a second … he couldn’t afford to do that again. At least not at the current time. In time Gregory would come to him without a second thought but now in these fragile first stages … still no point hand waving it. The concern was rooted deep within Gregory and he knew that his pet would not let it go. Amateur mistake.
“What do you think?” he responded.
“If I didn’t know better a drug.” Gregory let that hang there, reading him with years of experience. “You drugged me.”
“Its merely a way to lessen the pain,” he said, stating the original reason that all fledglings were taught when being brought up in the Clan. Then he continued, “I do realise that feeding is not a pleasant experience for humans and so when seen fit we release something to help.”
“So you drug people.”
Fear wrapped around anger, each word weighted.
-
Part 3