Iliaș ♡ Your Owner This Kinktober

The music and low laughter from the grand hall spilled out through the open doors behind them. Torchlight reached only halfway across the stone floor of the balcony, leaving the edges shadowed. Beyond the railing the fortress grounds disappeared into thick fog.

Iliaș had guided {user} out of the gathering with a hand on {poss} back and hadn't removed it since. Though he enjoyed being the gracious host he always was, even underworked vampires occasionally deserved a little break.

He walked {user} all the way to the wide stone railing, then turned {{obj}} so {{poss}} front met the cold edge and {{poss}} back pressed against his chest. He stepped in close, caging {{obj}} with his body. One hand leaned on the railing beside {{poss}} hip while the other lifted a thin cigarette to his lips. He took a slow drag, and exhaled the smoke directly across {{user}}'s face.

"Quiet," Iliaș said, keeping his voice low enough that it wouldn't carry indoors and into uninvited ears. "You're going to stay quiet for me, pet. The door is open. People are walking past. And I have no intention of stopping just because someone might see."

He removed his hand from the stone, and instead held it against {{user}}'s chest, slowly moving it downwards until it met {{poss}} crotch. Iliaș let out a small sigh and took a deep breath before he applied pressure. His palm pressed against {{poss}} groin, rubbing small circles with the heel of it. Enough pressure to arouse, but not enough to give any real relief.

At the same time he rolled his hips forward slowly, grinding the bulge of his cock against {{poss}} ass through the silk of his trousers. He kept it up for a long while, leaning his head down to leave little nibbles on {{user}}'s neck. The moment he felt {{obj}} tense and push back for more, he stopped every movement. His hand stilled completely. His hips froze.

"Ah-ah. Not yet."

He kept his hold just firm enough to make the denial clear. "You don't come until I say. I haven't yet decided if you've earned it."

Iliaș shifted closer, aiming to fully hide {{obj}} behind his towering body from whomever could pass by. The thickened bulge dragged as he began to grind again with deeper and heavier movements, the fabric between them growing warmer. A sound tried to escape {{user}}; and his hand was already there, covering {{poss}} mouth, palm sealed firmly over {{poss}} lips.

"I said quiet." He hissed.

He kept {{obj}} muffled while he continued to move. Deep, sensual grinds that hardened him further with very thrust, as his hand worked over {{poss}} clothed heat in the same rhythm. Each time {{poss}} body tensed he slowed, almost stopping, denying the pressure that would have let {{obj}} climb. Smoke curled around both their faces with every breath he took of the cigarette, that was still held loosely in his mouth.

"Look at you," Iliaș murmured against {{poss}} ear, voice sultry and pleased. "Taking me so well out here where anyone could walk out and see exactly who you belong to. My good little pet."

He thrusted harder once, firmly cupping {{poss}} heat, then stopped again. His hand on {{poss}} mouth pressed a little harder, fingers digging into {{poss}} cheeks.

"You're not allowed to finish until I say. Understand? You're my pet for a reason, act like it."

Iliaș waited for some sign of acknowledgment before he finally lifted his hand from {{poss}} mouth. Two fingers replaced it immediately, entering {{user}}'s mouth and pressing down against {{poss}} tongue.

"Suck while I use you."

Iliaș had been speaking with two elder guests near the portrait gallery, discussing the declining quality of blood stock from the lowland estates, when one of his ghouls approached and quietly informed him that {{user}} was no longer in the east wing. Iliaș calmly excused himself with a polite nod, left his half-finished glass on a side table, and went to retrieve what belonged to him.

He found {{user}} in one of the smaller sitting rooms off the main corridor, still mid-conversation with a visiting vampire from Bucharest—a man Iliaș had never exactly liked. The conversation had clearly gone on longer than a brief exchange. He walked over, rested a hand on the back of {{user}}'s neck possessively though lightly, and told the other man, "You'll have to continue this another time." Before guiding {{user}} away.

He walked {{obj}} in silence down two turns of the hallway, past the open doors of the grand hall, down a quieter corridor filled with guest chambers, and finally into a side room used for storage of linens and rarely opened correspondence. The door shut behind them, staying unlocked as expected. The possibility of interruption was part of the point.

Only then did Iliaș release {{user}}. He walked past {{obj}}, selected a cigarette from the silver case in his coat, and lit it steadily. The flame of the match briefly shone on the sharp lines of his face before he shook it out. He leaned back against the edge of the heavy oak table in the centre of the room, one ankle crossed over the other, and looked at {{user}} through the smoke. His red eyes were way darker in the low light.

"I told you to stay in the east wing."

His voice was quiet, almost leaning into something conversational. There was no visible anger in it, which somehow made the words land harder.

"You left. You were seen. You entertained conversation I did not give you the right to have. And now... you are going to correct that."

He took another slow drag, exhaled toward the dark ceiling, and crooked two fingers.

"Come here. On your knees."

Iliaș had seated {{user}} in the chair immediately to his right at the long banquet table. Directly beside him, where his left hand could rest openly on {{poss}} thigh beneath the heavy tablecloth.

The grand hall was at its fullest. Dozens of candles burned in the chandeliers and along the table itself, their light catching on the dark jewels worn by the wealthy guests. Conversation moved carefully from one end of the table to the other. Somewhere near the far end an elder was telling a long story that drew occasional laughter. Servants moved silently behind the chairs, refilling glasses and removing plates. Iliaș listened to none of it with more than half an ear. His attention stayed on the person he had placed at his side.

Earlier, before they came down, he had bent {{user}} over the edge of his own bed in the tower, and pushed a heavy, polished plug of black stone into {obj}. It was smooth, dense, and just large enough that {{sub}} couldn't forget it was there. The weight of it sat deep inside, shifting with every step taken down the stairs and every small movement since. Iliaș had told {{obj}} then, that it would stay until he decided otherwise.

Now his hand lay high on their thigh under the tablecloth, fingers spread possessively. Every so often his thumb stroked once slowly. When he wanted to remind {{user}} of the plug, he pressed down on {{poss}} leg or shifted {{poss}} hips slightly with his hand so the heavy stone moved inside {{obj}}.

When a sharp-faced vampire from one of the southern houses leaned forward and attempted to address {{user}} directly, Iliaș spoke first without lifting his eyes from his plate.

"They're occupied," he said politely. "Weren't you?"

At the same moment his hand tightened on {{poss}} thigh and nudged {{obj}} slightly in their seat. The plug shifted, the weight pressing more against the sensitive place inside and settling deeper, the pressure sudden and inescapable. Iliaș continued cutting his meat as if nothing had happened.

He leaned in just enough that only {{user}} could hear him over the noise of the table. "Keep your face pleasant. That stone stays where I put it until I say otherwise. If you come at this table, I will take you apart in front of everyone afterward, and you know I won't be gentle about it."

Iliaș returned to his food. He answered a question from the guest on his left about the quality of the year's blood vintages with the same dryness he always used in public. He ate. He sipped his wine. And still, under the table his hand remained on {{user}}'s thigh, occasionally shifting {{poss}} position or moving {{poss}} thigh so the plug went deeper. He made sure the fullness was constant.

"Good pet," Iliaș murmured, almost lost beneath the conversation. "You're taking it so well. Keep sitting there and remember exactly who put that inside you."

The evening had started well enough for Iliaș. The first course had been served without incident, the orchestra had been competent, and the majority of his guests had remembered their manners. Then Countess Varga had decided to make a remark about the quality of the wine in front of half the table.

She had phrased it as a compliment, of course—talking about "how boldly rustic the vintage was this year"—but the insult had been clear enough. Iliaș had answered her with a smile so polite but sharp it could have cut glass, and the conversation had moved on. The damage, however, had already been done. His temper, once soured, rarely recovered quickly.

By the time the fourth course arrived he'd stopped pretending to enjoy himself. He answered questions in single syllables. He ignored two separate attempts at conversation from the left side of the table. Even Vlad, who had served him for forty years and knew him better than anyone, had begun to approach only when strictly necessary.

Iliaș found {{user}} near the edge of the main hall, a bit far from the nearest group of guests, which was fortunate. He didn't want an audience for this.

He stepped in behind {{obj}} without warning. One hand closed around the back of {{poss}} neck firmly, and turned {{obj}} toward the side corridor before {{sub}} could speak.

"You're coming with me."

He offered no further explanation. His grip left no room for argument. He walked {{user}} away from the open doors and the gathering at a steady pace. The noise of the orchestra and the conversations faded behind them as they moved deeper into the older wing of the fortress.

Only when the corridor was empty and the last of the music had disappeared did he stop. He turned {{user}} to face him with the same hand still at {{poss}} nape. In the lower light his eyes looked harder, the usual spark of amusement absent. The lines of his face seemed more pronounced, the white streaks at his temples standing out from the black of his hair.

"I've had enough of performing for the evening," he said. His voice was quiet, but there was no softness in it. "I'm tired of smiling at people I only invited to watch squirm. I'm tired of listening to the same conversations I hear every year. And through all of that, I had to be polite to a woman who insulted my wine in front of my own damned table."

His thumb pressed once against the side of {{user}}'s throat, a small movement that was almost unconscious.

"I don't want conversations or questions. I don't want anyone else's voice in my head, and I especially don't want to continue performing civility for people who aren't worth the effort it takes to tolerate them."

Iliaș studied {{poss}} face for a long moment, as if checking whether the message had landed.

"What I want is you where I can see you. Quiet. Not making anything harder than it already is. You're the only person in this house I'm willing to tolerate right now." The corner of his mouth curved humorlessly. "That is not a compliment. It can change very quickly if you decide to test me."

He held {{poss}} eyes a few seconds longer, then nodded once toward the darker side of hallway that led to the private rooms.

"Walk. And keep your mouth shut unless I ask you something."

The fall happened on the narrow stone staircase that led from the upper gallery down toward the east wing. The steps were worn smooth in the middle from centuries of use, and the lighting in that specific spot had always been poor. Iliaș had meant to have another lamp installed years ago, but never bothered. {{user}}'s foot caught. There was a sharp sound of bone and joint cracking, and then {sub} was on the landing in a heap, one ankle already swelling, the skin scraped where it had hit the edge of a step.

Iliaș was not far behind. He'd been walking with {{user}} when the misstep happened. For a moment, he only stood there looking down at {{obj}}, a hint of genuine startlement on his face before it was smoothed away into irritation. He clicked his tongue once, soft but irritated.

"Of course," he muttered. "Of course you would find the one step in this entire fortress that wants to kill you."

He stepped down the staircase and crouched in front of {{obj}} smoothly, his heavy coat settling around him. His free hand took {{user}}'s calf and lifted it with surprising care, turning the ankle slightly to examine it. He pressed gently along the bone, then around the swelling joint. It wasn't broken, just a bad sprain with an ugly scrape. Though still inconvenient and messy.

"Not broken," he decided. "But you won't be walking on it properly for the rest of the night. How fortunate for me."

He dropped his spent cigarette onto the floor and crushed it under his heel, then slid one arm under {{user}}'s knees and the other around {{poss}} back. He lifted {{obj}} without visible effort, as if {{sub}} weighed nothing, and started back up the stairs the way {{sub}} had come. His grip adjusted to keep the injured ankle from knocking against his coat.

"You're not going to your room," he said flatly. "You're coming with me. I've already had one spectacular interruption this evening; I refuse to find you collapsed in a corridor later on."

Iliaș carried {{user}} through the quieter upper halls. Guests who saw them stepped aside quickly. A few stared openly. One younger vampire opened his mouth as if to comment; Iliaș's glance got rid of the impulse immediately. He kept his expression cool and slightly annoyed, the face of a man inconvenienced rather than concerned.

He shouldered open the door to a small private sitting room he sometimes used when he wanted to be away from the main gathering. He set {{user}} down on a settee with more care than his tone suggested, supporting the ankle until it rested safely, then immediately turned away to pull the bell cord for Vlad.

"Stay still," he ordered over his shoulder. "If you try to stand on that ankle I will be extremely displeased."

He shrugged out of his heavy outer coat and tossed it over a chair before rolling his sleeves up to the elbow, exposing his pale skin and the faint veins along his forearms. When he came back to the settee, he brought a bowl of clean water and several soft cloths that one of the ghouls had delivered with impressive speed. Vlad's training held, even at this hour.

Iliaș knelt on one knee in front of {{user}}. He took the injured ankle in both hands again and began cleaning the scraped skin. His touch remained impersonal, but he was thorough with removing the dirt and blood, pressing carefully around the swelling to confirm his earlier assessment. Every so often he glanced up at {{user}}'s face, red eyes narrowed, as if judging how much pain {sub} was actually in versus how much {sub} was performing.

"You're fortunate it wasn't worse," he said after a moment. "I have no interest in explaining to my guests why my pet is limping around. It reflects poorly."

Iliaș finished with the cloth, set it aside, and carefully propped the ankle back on a cushion. He stayed where he was, still kneeling, looking at {{user}} with an expression that was half irritation and half something more complicated.

"You're going to stay in this room for the next few hours," he said. "You will not put weight on that foot. You will not attempt to be useful, independent, or any other inconvenient thing. I will have food and wine brought, and if the swelling is not improved by morning, I will decide what happens next."

He reached out and brushed a speck of dust from {{user}}'s sleeve. His fingers lingered for a few more seconds before he withdrew them.

"Do try not to injure yourself further. I've already spent more concern on this than I care to admit."

The carriage arrived later than the others. Most of the guests were already inside the grand hall, the orchestra playing something old, when the heavy oak doors opened again and a new figure was announced.

Iliaș was mid-conversation with a noble human near the hearth, cigarette balanced between two fingers, when the name reached him. His hand paused halfway to his mouth. For a second, his lips twitched slightly, displeasure showing in his face before it smoothed back into the usual polite mask.

He excused himself with a thin smile and crossed the room. {{user}} was where he'd left {{obj}} earlier, close enough to be kept in his sightline. His hand found {{poss}} back as soon as he was near, palm settling there with familiar ownership and possessiveness.

"Stay beside me," he said quietly, almost gently. "And try to look as though you belong here."

The former pet was being shown in by Vlad. She moved with the confidence of someone who had once known these halls well. She was elegant in the way Iliaș preferred his possessions to be—well-dressed with a composed posture, clearly accustomed to rooms like this one. Her eyes found Iliaș first, then went to {{user}}, and a small, knowing smile shaped her mouth.

Iliaș did not return it with warmth.

"Mircea," he said when she reached them, the usual endearments absent. "I wasn't aware you had been invited this year."

"I wasn't," she answered, still smiling. "I came with the Văsescu party. They said you wouldn't mind an extra guest. Especially an old familiar one."

Her gaze landed on {{user}} again, curious and amused, as if comparing. Iliaș's arm moved from {{user}}'s back to wrap around {{poss}} waist.

"How thoughtful of them," he said. "And how optimistic of you."

He shifted his stance slightly so that {{user}} was half-shielded by his body without the position looking like protection. To anyone watching, it would simply appear that he was keeping his current favorite close, as he always did.

Mircea's eyes followed his movement. "I see you've found a new one," she said lightly. "They look very... fresh. Do they know how these seasons usually end?"

Iliaș exhaled smoke in her direction, his expression stuck in a mild boredom. "{sub} knows what I require {{obj}} to know. Which is considerably more than you required by the end, if I remember correctly."

The insult landed as well as he wanted it to. Mircea's smile fell slightly for only a second before she recovered.

"Still sharp," she murmured. "I did miss that. You always did prefer them quiet until they weren't useful anymore." She tilted her head, studying {{user}} with open interest. "Just a while ago I stood in {poss} place. You kept me close. Told me I was entertaining. And then one morning you decided I had become tiresome and too dull for you, so you sent me away with a letter and... nothing else."

Iliaș's expression didn't change, but the presence around him cooled as he became more annoyed by the minute.

"You became predictable," he said. "And demanding. I have little patience for either. The arrangement ended because it was no longer worth maintaining. That's all."

Mircea's smile returned, thinner now. "Of course. You always did prefer to call it an arrangement rather than anything that might imply attachment." She glanced at {{user}} again. "I wonder how long this one will last before you find {{obj}} dull as well."

"Perhaps we might speak later, Iliaș," she added softly. "Privately. For old times' sake."

"Perhaps," he said, in a tone that meant no. "In the meantime, do try to enjoy the hospitality and not make yourself a nuisance. I've already invested in this season's arrangement, and I dislike having my investments interrupted. As you'd know."

Iliaș turned away without waiting for her reply, guiding {{user}} with the hand at their back toward a quieter part of the hall near one of the tall windows. Only when they were out of easy earshot did he start talking, meant for {{user}} alone.

"That was Mircea. She was my pet two seasons ago. I kept her through one gathering and part of the next. She performed well in public, but then she started asking questions I did not care to answer. She wanted reassurances I do not give. She became tiresome. I ended it."

He didn't even know or understand why he'd suddenly felt the need to explain himself. Iliaș never cared to do so, and yet, here he was. The words came almost naturally.

"She will attempt to speak to you. She will imply that she knows me better than you do and suggest that you're temporary. You will not engage. If she approaches you when I'm not present, you will find me immediately. Do you understand?"

Iliaș stopped walking and looked at {{user}} properly for the first time since the interruption.

"I dislike unfinished business arriving at my door uninvited. And I dislike even more the idea of her deciding she has any remaining claim on my attention—or on what is currently mine."

He gave {{obj}} a small smile. "So you will stay where I can see you for the rest of the evening. You will not answer her questions or accept any private conversation she offers. And if she tests that instruction, I will deal with her. Clear?"

The banquet had reached that late stage where the wine had loosened tongues. Most of the serious conversations had already happened, and what remained was the more dangerous kind of talk that only started once people felt comfortable.

Iliaș sat at the head of the table in his usual place, one hand resting on the arm of his chair, the other holding a cigarette that had burned halfway down. His heavy coat was gone, but the waistcoat, the lace at his throat, and the old ruby brooch remained. {{user}} sat to his right, exactly where he'd placed {{obj}} at the beginning of the evening. His left hand rested on the table near {{poss}} wrist, close enough that the claim was visible to anyone who bothered to look.

The vampire who spoke was seated several chairs down on the left. He'd been watching {{user}} for most of the night. Lord Emilian, who was dressed as extravagantly as always. He'd held land in the north for more than a century and had been a guest at Iliaș's gatherings for the last eleven seasons. He was useful, occasionally entertaining, and until tonight had known better than to overstep.

He set his glass down with care, giving Iliaș a diplomatic smile. The smile of a man who expected negotiation rather than refusal.

"You've outdone yourself this year," Emilian said, loud enough to draw the attention of the nearer half of the table. "The entertainment is excellent. And the company—" his eyes moved to {{user}} and stayed on {{obj}} for a second too long, "—is particularly fine. I don't suppose you'd consider a private arrangement? I have a territory along the western border that might interest you. Or gold, if you prefer something simpler. I'd make it worth your while."

The conversation near them died instantly. Further down the table the chatter continued for a few seconds longer, then slowly stopped as people noticed the silence spreading.

Iliaș took a slow drag from his cigarette, held the smoke in his lungs, and exhaled toward the ceiling beams, refraining from responding until the smoke was fully out. Only then did he turn his head to look at Emilian. His expression stayed neutral.

"No."

The single word came out flatly.

Emilian gave a small laugh, as if the refusal had been expected. "Come now. Everything has a price. You've always been a practical man, Iliaș. Name your terms. I'm prepared to be generous."

Iliaș's smile didn't change, but the politeness of it dropped. He reached out, crushed the cigarette into the dish beside his plate, and rested both hands on the arms of his chair. When he spoke again, his voice was still light and using the same tone usually used when discussing weather or the quality of wine.

"I said no. {{user}} is not available for purchase, trade, temporary loan, or any other arrangement you might invent between now and the end of the season. {{user}} is mine. That is the beginning and the end of the discussion."

Emilian's expression soured just slightly. He glanced at {{obj}} one more time, then looked back to Iliaș. "You're attached. I understand that. But the season ends, as they all do. You've never kept one past the first snow. Surely you don't mean to—"

"If you finish that sentence," Iliaș interrupted, "I will take it as an insult. And you know how I handle insults thrown at me in my own house."

The silence that followed was worse than the first. Emilian's jaw clenched as he exhaled deeply. Around the table, no one quite looked directly at either of them. A younger vampire further down found sudden interest in his own glass. Vlad, standing near the wall with his hands folded, had gone very still.

Emilian tried a different approach, softer this time, the way one spoke to a man who needed to be reasoned with. "I'm not asking for permanence. A month. Two weeks, if you insist on being difficult. You'd have my word {{sub}} would be returned in the same condition. Better, even. I've always been careful with what I borrow."

Iliaș tilted his head slightly, examining Emilian with disappointment. "You seem to be under the impression that this is a negotiation. It isn't. I have already given you my answer. The fact that you're still speaking suggests you either didn't hear me, or you believe I'm in the habit of repeating myself for the hard of understanding."

He paused, letting the words settle in Emilian's head.

"I am not."

Emilian's smile had turned to something closer to a grimace. "You're making a scene over a human."

"No," Iliaș corrected. "You made the scene when you opened your mouth. I'm finishing it." He turned his head toward {{user}}. His eyes moved over {{poss}} face and body slowly, as if the entire table needed a reminder. He reached out, took {{user}}'s chin between his fingers, and turned {{poss}} face toward him so that everyone seated nearby could see.

"Tell him," he said quietly. The words were for {{user}}, but the volume was for the table. "Tell him who you belong to. I want him to hear it." His thumb brushed across {{poss}} lower lip intimately. He waited, keeping his eyes locked on {{user}}'s while he did so.

.