Craving

by Miss-shiva-adler

It shook him, it made him cry, it made him desire to be dead. But in the end, he'd always come back for more.

Title: Craving

Words: 3,539

Rating : NC-17 (let's face it, it's pure PWP)

Summary: It shook him, it made him cry, it made him desire to be dead. But in the end, he'd always come back for more.
Author's note: For Mewsol's birthday, who wanted this for quite a while now. This is also a little preview of the World of Darkness/Mozart l'Opéra Rock crossover I'll be writing.
Trigger Warnings : blood

It hurt more than anything, his whole body was screaming, warmth everywhere. He wanted to cry, stop everything. But he'd be good, he'd be a faithful. The tremendous applause rose in the room, deafening. But he didn't hear, he had to keep himself in control. Cheers, screaming, their auras overwhelming the room. He wanted to vomit, to still his inner turmoil. He'd crawl, he'd crawl on the floor if he could. But he couldn't, he was master of himself, he wouldn't disgrace himself.

He looked at the room and saw how the different colours, like some kind of smoke, danced constantly. Some were so bright it was difficult to bear. His eyes travelled to the orchestra, most of them were switching between bright vermillion and violet. They were intermixing and changing as the crowd was cheering louder and louder. But not the one who was at the centre. Its pale light blue presence felt like the most imposing one. The air got stuck in his throat. He wanted approval; he wanted a nod. To show that it was satisfactory; that is was good. But it didn't come, no reaction was shown at all and when everyone started moving he needed to force himself to blink. He'd have to go home, go home and see... and hope. It took all of his strenght and willpower to move.

The pain had appeared when the second act had started. First, an uncomfortable itch that didn't want to go away. Then it was the feeling of burning, first slightly, before it transformed itself into the one that made all his limbs go numb and if he could he'd break down in the middle of the room, howling.

He needed his fix.

Every step was like being sliced with a knife, making him want to weep. But he had to walk and take the carriage home. He turned himself to go to the main entrance where the coaches awaited their nobles. His world was turning, his heartbeat was irregular, even breathing was becoming difficult. He arrived at the splitting of the stairs. More nobles, the richer ones, were coming down. All talking loudly with enthousiasm. Then a familiar cold feeling overwhelmed his spine. Everything was suddenly constricting and he felt like freezing on the spot, the urge of fleeing telling all his senses to just go and run. He was coming down the stairs.

His throat was like sewn shut of terror as he bit his tongue when their eyes met. The Italian was mocking him, laughing at him, humiliating him in his face through a smirk. The pale aura and the dark gaze; he couldn't hold it and his whole body started trembling. He knew it was all just power and discipline. He stood his ground, trying to be brave as the anxiety was scorching away any possible sane thought.

"Deplorevole."

The word stung to his bones as the Maestro walked away. The trembling of his body was hurting him and it felt like needles were inserted and twisting his muscles. Slowly the Italian composer walked away and when finally he was out of sight, he had a sharp intake of breath. His hands were shaking just as much as his body, his pupils dilated with fear. He looked at his hands, trying not to claw at himself. He balled his fists and closed his eyes to calm the panic that was already coming to surface. Once he had inhaled and exhaled deeply, he stopped quavering.

But he wasn't at peace; the pain, the craving, was gnawing at him again. Suddenly he wanted to cry, cry so badly. Every step was agony as his muscles remained tense. At least, amidst the sea of people, he was invisible.

He arrived at his apartment and it felt nauseating. His trembling hand unlocked his main door. He didn't have many servants, only a maid who came cleaning once a day. She would have left a long time ago. He walked in the dark; stumbling around; each step becoming heavier. His world was spinning. Clumsily he took off his jacket and deposited it in on the table. He went to his bedroom, almost crashing himself against the harpsichord while doing so. He almost fell but thanks to his hand on the wall he was able to go to his nightstand. His hands taken by heavy tremors looked for matches to light up a single candle. He sat upon his bed and took his wig off. There was no strength to throw it on the ground and he just let it slide away from his fingers to let it meet the floor. He mustered a glance in the mirror on his wall, he looked ill. His cheeks were hollow and his eyes looked dead. The colour of his skin was almost starting to look blue and yellow as if he had been beaten up.

He laid with his back upon his bed, looking at the ceiling. There was nothing he could do. He'd have to wait until it passed, until he came by. He closed his eyes, wondering, if it didn't happen, will the death be slow or would he turn to dust? Hate could take him over. But he couldn't find the energy to feel different; he felt miserable and pitiful. His existence had vanished and all he had was screaming limbs.

At this point he heard the shuffle of clothes and a door closing. Softly the sound of the harpsichord was heard. His heart started pounding in his chest. Relief? Or not yet. His whole being was wailing as he raised himself up. He stumbled and almost fell on the floor. It's finally going to end was his only thought. He opened his bedroom door to discover that in the main room all the candles had been lit.

There he was, his hair was ruffled and he hadn't changed clothes. His hands played over the keys, composing a melody that he was just creating out of nothing. He wanted to raise a hand to the younger looking man but he didn't. He crossed his arms, trying to control the shaking of his body. He wanted to fall on his knees and crawl, filled with desperation and hope, toward the musician in an attempt to get what he needed.

Strange enough the sound, the melody, made him calm down. The primar restlessness was gone but the uneasy feeling just didn't leave his body. The composer was using his presence to keep the older looking man in control, to make him feel as if he was in a sort of dream. But the pain, the burning sensation, was still there.

"You did very well Da Ponte." Mozart always called him by his family name, never by a pejorative word which he heard so many others call his alike. "I am very pleased. The Viennese really loved Così fan tutte."

His heart felt like exploding. Was he pleased ? Really pleased ? He felt better even if not entirely fulfilled . He wanted to say something but somehow the song prevented him to move or to say anything. The melody continued, eerie like, imposing a calm, floating and cold atmosphere. It died out in a final press on the C key.

"Thank you, Maestro."His voice was back. He dug his nails into his arms and bit the inside of his cheeks, his body started trembling again; wondering if he could be rude. But his Maestro has been pleased so he gathered his courage and dared to ask. "I was wondering, Maestro, if..."

The laugh that followed could have thrown him off he didn't know who he had in front of him. The composer stood up. The librettist's heart was pounding more and more as he tried to relax himself. Mozart was approaching him, his eyes lingering, Da Ponte knew that above everything: He was the prey here. His body shivered as he dug his nails even further into his arms. He was going to beg, to beg for it, beg for the ending of his craving and the younger looking man would make him. Because it was all just a game and he was the chesspiece. The Maestro stood right in front of him now. He didn't dare to look into the piercing eyes, directing his own at the floor since the prodigy composer was almost a head shorter than him.

"Yes of course," said the Maestro while smirking.

The composer then brushed past him and went to his bedroom. Gott, he felt like fainting when the musician had muttered the words. Like an automaton he turned around and went back to his bedroom, closing the door the Maestro had left open.

The younger looking man had lit up the candle of his desk. The slender fingers were tracing the wood, his brown eyes watching the burning flame. Nothing gave away who Wolfgang Gottlieb Mozart was. Nothing, but his fingers, more particularly his nails; their glassy and transparent appearance gave away that the prodigy composer may not be who he pretended to be. He also knew that the composer spend good money on scented coloured oils to conceal that peculiar detail. Today they were purple or violet. He couldn't really see or pay attention, his body and mind were still only concentrated on one thing.

"Come here," said the kindred without looking at him.

He kept himself back to not run or walk too fast, he wanted to keep at least some dignity and not show how starved, how wanting he was. He stood only a meter away from the younger looking man now. The Maestro turned himself toward him. The release, the end of his craving, was so near, it made him feel light-headed. The composer took a step forward; they were so close now that the poet had to still his hands from trembling. Because mein Gott they were.

"I am so very pleased Da Ponte" the voice was so low the librettist's survival instinct was waking him up inside of him; the distress signals wanting to make him flee were appearing as the fangs in the composer's mouth elongated. His body screamed against all of his instincts. He needed this more, more than anything. The urge was becoming unbearable and he knew that he couldn't do anything reckless to get what he wanted. He was about to raise a hand to the younger looking man's face when the Maestro's silken voice interuppted his intended gesture.

"Now come and kiss me."

The resquest startled him, making his body freeze in reply. Never ever had the prodigy composer asked for something alike. He needed to be sure; sure it was what the younger looking man had asked for. In a wretched tone the librettist asked for confirmation.

"Maestro ?"

His eyes got transfixed upon the fangs; they were upon the prodigy composer's bottom lip. They were so, so near. A slight pressure and the sharp teeth punctured the flesh. His body jolted upon seeing the red liquid. His tongue came to rest against the back of his teeth, feeling his appetite rise even more.

"Come and kiss me."

The kindred hadn't needed to ask again. He leaned in and touched the lips, only tasting faintly what he ached for. The lips felt cold. His hands were itching and he hoped he wasn't making any mistake by putting his hands on the prodigy composer's cheeks. His tongue lapped at every droplet appearing on the flesh underneath his mouth. He wanted more, so very much more. His hands went to the cheeks of the musician, deepening the kiss. There was more blood there; the composer must have punctured his tongue. Upon the touch with the liquid, the librettist felt almost frenzied, he needed to have more. His body was quivering and he started to moan as the younger looking man seemed to start responding to his kiss. He knew the kindred could falsify or pretend the physical arousal. And when the composer started to feel warmer at the touch he didn't wonder why, why the vampire was faking, he just wanted his thirst to be satisfied.

He licked at the tongue to get some of the vitae he yearned for inside of his system. The younger looking man's hands went to the librettist's neck and wrapped his arms around him. Da Ponte dared to open his eyes when the bloodied tongue started to slow the pace of the caressing inside the other's mouth. The composer had closed his eyelids just as the human had done it before the deeper and carnal kiss. But the kindred knew that the older looking man was observing him. When he opened his eyes, the librettist was shivering under the cold gaze. His body was still screaming, craving, and when the younger looking man wanted to break the kiss, the poet didn't have the self-control to let the vampire go. He kept sucking the bottom lip. Eventually the piercing gaze was penetrating him so hard he felt compelled to let go of the lip.

He was short of breath, his head was feeling less drunk of want, the extensive hurting sensation gone. But it wasn't done yet, it wasn't enough.

"Sit down on that chair and turn it around."

The vampire pointed to the chair at his desk. The voice was sweet and gentle; he felt the urge to obey striking him and he went to the chair. He turned it around to face the kindred and sat down. Excitement rose inside of him. He was going to get his fix and he would feel normal again; his craving being stilled for another month.

"Undo the buttons of your breeches."

His mouth fell open at the inquiry. Never did he have the chance, never in this way, he... The kindred approached him; locking his eyes with him and he felt himself wanting to do it; to undo the fastening of his breeches. His hands went to the buttons. The brown eyes looked so beautiful, so mesmerizing, his whole body was warming up at the gaze. He felt his heart accelerating as if he was falling in love. His fingers undid the first button. He broke their locked gazes to watch what his hands were doing. The second button was undone and then a third and finally the last one. He looked back at the Maestro for a sign of approval. The composer walked up to him and with slow and calculated movement, the vampire went on his knees. He didn't dare to lock his gaze with the brown glance again, he preferred looking at the ceiling. Perhaps he didn't want to show his human weakness even more. He closed his eyelids as the hands parted his knees. They felt warm, so warm on his thighs as they travelled to the rim of his breeches. He got up a bit to give better access to take the fabric off. The cool air made him shiver.

Warm palms traced the inside of his thighs and he felt his member twitch. He had felt some arousal during their kiss, but now it was more, he felt himself becoming warmer and warmer. The slender fingers travelled, slowly tracing patterns with the nails, he felt himself half moaning half sighing at the sensation. The languid torture continued, the hands gradually approaching his pelvic, caressing the curls. Gott he was getting seriously aroused by the mere caresses. The palm went lower and lower and a sharp intake of breath was all he could muster when the left hand took his growing erection delicately in its possesion. The other rested upon his inner thigh.

"Ah, Maestro."

It had escaped his lips without his consent. The hand encircled his shaft and oh by the heavens he couldn't keep out a sigh. Slowly, the hand went up and down, holding a light pressure. He opened his eyes to look back at what was happening between his legs. Normally the sight would have had him activate unconsciously his primary instinct of survival upon seeing the elongated fangs so close. But it didn't as the brown eyes stared fixedly into his. He felt himself desiring, desiring the younger looking man so badly. He opened his mouth in awe when the kindred's tongue appeared from between the slightly bloodied lips. He kept himself from leaning in to taste the vitae again. It wasn't what the Maestro had planned and he'd obey every single command.

The first lick made his muscles contract; he felt a moan stuck in his throat. The blood inside of him rushing south; his erection growing stronger and harder. The tongue licked the flesh right on the underside of his glans. He flexed and unflexed his hands so he wouldn't lay them upon the composer's scalp. His head was exploding, he couldn't help but whimper at the long and languid strokes. The tip of the tongue took a journey to the underside of his shaft, he inhaled sharply when the kindred flattened his tongue and slowly trailed back up. His hips started to follow the movement when the motion was repeated. He had to close his eyelids because not once the brown eyes had looked away.

He laid his hands upon his knees as the tongue continued its agonising administration. He couldn't, oh mein Gott, he HAD to control himself. The licks started going faster and his whimpers transformed themselves into moaning. He dug his nails into his knees, trying to find his self-control back in the pain.

The palm on his shaft moved to the base. Da Ponte had to open his eyes as the head of his member came in contact with warm lips. His preseminal fluid had already started to appear at the tip, the kindred pierced him with his eyes again. The younger looking man was smirking and he smeared the fluid upon his lips before opening his mouth.

The heat made him loose his ground. The lips around his shaft, the warmth spreading in his whole anatomy; feeling like a tugging sensation. It set all his senses ablaze and when the lips started to move he couldn't control anything anymore. His hands flew at the scalp, his fingers entertwining with the half curling locks. He moaned so loudly it sounded so foreign in his ears.

The composer didn't seem to be angry or to be slightly caring that the librettist's hands were in his hair. In answer to the situation the lips moved, building up to a speed that the older looking man seemed to like. The poet groaned and moaned, closing his eyes once more and resting his head against the back of the chair. His hands were trembling and shaking, his hips were meeting the movements of the lips, the left hand upon his shaft was creating a counter stroke that made him lose his head. The earth was gone from underneath his feet; the warmth guiding him, making him feel alive. He was going to explode as he felt the tongue and the hollowing cheeks increasing the suction. It was going to be any moment now.

He never felt the hand upon his thigh nor the nails tracing, a growl could have breached his lips when, with violence, the mouth left his erection. But what he felt next was a feeling uncomparable to any others, addictive, consuming. It was sharp and hurtful. He opened his eyes wide open. The world collapsing as the sharp and intense pain made his whole body screech in anguish and agony. He was dying and living at the same time. The world was spinning as the euforia was making his world dazzle in vibrant colours. He was close to death, close to life, feeling as if the world had crushed upon him, feeling like he was drowning but still breathing, his lungs collapsing and rising. The world was only a meaningless rock of nothing. His body was staggering and convulsing, tears were breaking him as he was incapable let out any noise.

His dilated pupils didn't see anything, everything had so many colours he couldn't differentiate them. The teeth left his thigh and a slit wrist pressed itself against his lips he didn't feel it until his forces of instinct woke up and a hunger that hadn't been stilled drove his hands to the arm. His nails dug into the shirt's fabric. He whimpered and moaned as he sucked at the vitae. His head was spinning, unable to come down from the sensation of dying and rebirth, his body taking what it had needed so desperately.

Then it stopped flowing, the wrist becoming ice cold in his hand. It was done.

He hadn't had time to see or to feel anything else. He just collapsed in inconciousness on the floor as everything went black in his mind.

The next day when he woke up the burning sensation was gone. His mind had been put at rest. He continued his life like he always did. But what he ignored that the next month he'd be desperately looking, looking for someone else, because Wolfgang Gotlieb Mozart had finally grown bored of him.

The end

Author's note:
I took some liberties in the vampire myth of the original world of darkness (it's only the nails basically because I LOVE Anne Rice's detail about them) I am also not sure if this fic is actually gonna feature in the planned plotline for the World of Darkness AU I am gonna make. In any case I hope you all loved the pretaste of what's to come.